KILMEN  Y 


BY 

WILLIAM     BLACK. 


AUTHOR   OF 


SHANDON  BELLS,"  "YOLANDE,"  "STRANGE  ADVENTURES  OF  A 
"PHAETON,"  MADCAP  VIOLET,"  "  SUNRISE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK; 

JOHN   W.    LOVELL   COMPANY, 
14  AND  16  VESEY  STREET. 


3n  etnem  £ljat,  bet  armcn  §trten, 
(Sr[d)ten  mit  jebem  juugen  3al)r, 
(Sobatb  bie  erften  ?erd)cn  {djtuirrten, 
(Sin  2)Zabd)en  fc^on  unb  ttwnbevbar. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PACK 

I.      MY    MASTER I 

II.      MY  HOME 7 

III.  MY  UNCLE  JOB 13 

IV.  MY    FRIEND 22 

V.    IN  REGENT'S  PARK „  33 

VI.     THE  AESTHETIC  GROTTO 43 

VII.      SOME  OLD    FRIENDS 56 

VIII.    POLLY'S  MOTHER 65 

IX.      LEWES  CASTLE 73 

X.      POLLY  AND  HE 85 

XI.      MR.  ALFRED    BURNHAM 90 

XII.      AT   SHOREHAM 96 

XIII.  BURNHAM    PARK 99 

XIV.  THE  LADIES'  GARDEN 1 1 1 

XV.      THE   LAST   OF   UNCLE  JOB %  115 

XVI.      IN    LONDON   AGAIN 1 2O 

XVII.      KILMENY 127 

XVIII.      THE  WHITE    DOVES 133 

XIX.      THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 147 

XX.      SOME   REVELATIONS ". 153 

XXI.      QUITS 1 66 

XXII.      A  WILD  GUESS 171 

XXIII.  MY    PATRON 185 

XXIV.  THE  ROYAL   ACADEMY 193 

XXV.    LEB*  WOHL! 197 

XXVI.     THE   VILLA    LORENZ 2O2 

XXVII.      DAS  WANDERLEBEN 2IO 

XXVIII.      FATHER  AND   SON 217 

XXIX.     THE  SONG  OF  WOLUNDUR 227 

XXX.      NEWS   FROM  ENGLAND 238 

XXXI,  BONNIE  LESLEY'S  METAPHOR 245 

XXXII.  INNSBRUCK 257 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

XXXIII.  HEATHERLEIGH'S  FEAT 264 

XXXIV.  AT    BURNHAM    GATES 270 

XXXV.      THE   DROPPED    GLOVE 279 

XXXVI.      OUR  TRUSTY   COUSIN 289 

XXXVII.      IN    MUNICH   AGAIN 296 

XXXVIII.      KILMENY  COMES  HOME 300 


K  I  L  M  E  N  Y. 


CHAPTER   I. 

MY   MASTER. 

I  WAS  not  born  to  command  men.  The  keen,  audacious 
spirit  which  plans  the  building  of  bridges,  lays  down  great 
lines  of  railway,  and  gets  up  prodigious  companies  was  always 
a  mystery  to  me — a  mystery  as  depressing  as  the  things  them- 
selves. I  used  to  be  afraid  of  large  mechanical  works — used 
to  wonder  what  sort  of  men  first  undertook  to  raise  immense 
viaducts,  drive  tunnels  through  mountains,  and  plan  huge 
ships.  The  mere  size  of  a  church  made  me  sad.  And  when 
I  met  men  who  seemed  to  have  splendid,  matter-of-fact 
strength  in  their  faces — men  who  had  hard,  clear,  literal  views 
of  things — who  were  on  equal  terms  with  the  newest  enter- 
prises, and  were  capable  of  imagining  even  newer  and  bigger 
things,  I  almost  feared  them.  A  tall  man  overawed  me  as  a 
big  building  did.  Then  the  great,  rich  people,  who  had  such 
a  royal  way  with  them — the  men  who  could  stare  a  beggar 
out  of  countenance,  who  could  quite  honestly  look  at  a  trades- 
man or  a  waiter  as  a  sort  of  divinely  appointed  slave,  who 
could  do  cruel  things  when  the  law  allowed  them,  and  laugh 
over  the  misfortune  of  their  weaker  opponent — they,  too, 
were  among  my  mysteries.  The  world  was  too  big  and  strong 
and  rich  and  hard-hearted ;  and  I  feared  it. 

I  used  to  make  a  world  of  my  own,  in  which  there  were  no 
gigantic  walls,  or  gaunt  buildings,  or  lonely  squares  with  cold 
iron  railings  and  melancholy  trees.  It  was  a  world  which  I 
must  have  borrowed  from  some  theatrical  scene  ;  for  it  only 
consisted  of  an  Irish  lake,  surrounded  by  hills,  under  moon- 
light. I  used  to  imagine  myself  living  always  by  this  lake, 
and  listening  to  the  old  Irish  airs,  which  seemed  somehow  to 
hover  round  about  it,  and  be  its  very  atmosphere.  At  night 
I  would  lie  in  a  boat  on  the  still  surface,  with  the  moonlight 


2  KILMENY. 

on  the^sedges  and  trees;  and  the  melody  that  always  came 
then — ^lilje'tfee  lake 'it-sdt.  speaking — was,  "Silent,  O  Moyle, 
be  the  sound  of  thy  waters!'"..  Fancy  falling  asleep  to  that 
pathetic  w/il  P. /ilieji  ~: for  the  brisk  morning  breeze  and  the 
sunshine^the  joyous  '""GkrVyoWen  "  falling  into  the  plaintive 
minor  of  "  Shule  Aroon."  And  somehow  that  always  led  on 
to  "  Love's  Young  Dream  " — the  old  air  which  no  repetition 
can  rob  of  its  exceeding  sadness — sad  as  love's  young  dream 
itself — which  is  the  saddest  thing  a  man  meets  with  on  this 
side  of  death. 

I  suppose  it  all  arose  from  my  being  physically  not  the 
equal  of  my  neighbors.  I  saw  big,  strong,  handsome  men, 
and  they  were  to  me  as  demigods.  Was  it  not  their  right 
that  they  should  have  plenty  of  money  and  beautiful  wives, 
and  a  fine,  domineering  manner,  and  a  splendid  carnage  to 
whirl  them  homeward  to  their  grand  dinners  ?  Notwithstand- 
ing my  having  been  born  and  bred  in  the  heart  of  an  English 
county,  I  was  small  and  slight ;  I  was  sallow  of  face ;  I  was 
hungry-looking ;  and  they  used  to  say  that  my  eyes  stared 
like  those  of  a  young  crow.  Once  Big  Dick — of  whom  you 
will  hear  more  by  and  by — in  a  kindly  mood,  begotten  of 
too  much  beer,  said  to  me — 

"  Look  here,  Ted,  I'll  tell  you  what  you  are  like.  Did  you 
ever  snare  a  rabbit,  and  take  it  up  before  it  was  dead  ?  Did 
you  ever  catch  it  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  and  look  at  its  wild, 
frightened,  big  eyes,  that  were  full  of  fear  and  trouble  ?  You 
always  look  to  me  like  a  caught  rabbit,  half  dead  with  fright, 
and  like  to  cry,  if  you  only  could.  My  sister  had  eyes  like 
you.  I  wonder  if  you  would  cry,  like  her,  if  you  heard  pretty 
tunes  ?  Ted,  I  think  you  were  meant  for  a  girl." 

I  did  not  tell ;  but  that  I  used  to  cry  bitterly,  in  secret, 
over  certain  kinds  of  music — especially  some  of  these  Irish 
airs  I  have  named — was  too  well  known  to  myself.  You  must 
not  suppose,  however,  that  this  altogether  arose  from  physic- 
al weakness.  So  far  as  muscular  force  went,  I  was  strong. 
I  had  a  broad  chest.  My  arms,  rather  long,  were  tough  and 
sinewy.  When  the  fit  came  across  me,  I  used  to  torture  my- 
self with  physical  exercise,  to  get  rid  of  my  plethora  of  nerv- 
ous strength.  I  will  say  nothing  of  my  having  seen  a  boy, 
twice  as  big  as  myself,  beating  a  little  girl  one  day  in  High 
Holborn.  I  so  nearly  strangled  him  that  the  sight  of  his 
face  has  never  been  erased  from  my  memory. 

I  used  to  have  my  dreams,  of  course.  I  used  to  imagine 
myself  one  of  those  big,  handsome,  florid-faced  men,  with  lots 
of  money,  with  beautiful  women  my  friends,  with  the  power 


ing  whither  I  pleased,  with  the  delight  of  having  no 
master.  Oh  the  luxury  of  lying  in  bed  as  long  as  you  might 
wish  !  Oh  the  happiness  of  walking  out  in  the  sunny  forenoons 
— with  no  fear  of  coining  work — to  saunter  idly  by  the  gray  Ser- 
pentine, and  watch  the  blowing  of  the  leaves  of  the  trees  !  To 
have  no  master  and  lots  of  money  !  But  it  was  not  for  me — I 
was  too  small  and  insignificant.  These  things  were  for  the 
big  and  proud. 

You  may  ask  how  such  a  one  should  have  a  story  to  tell; 
and  I  reply  at  once  that  there  is  nothing  heroic  of  my  doing 
which  I  shall  have  to  record  in  these  pages.  But  I  have  a 
tenacious  memory :  life  has  seemed  very  various,  and,  on  the 
whole,  very  beautiful  to  me  ;  and  I  venture  to  set  down  some 
sketch  of  what  I  have  seen  and  know,  that  others  may  judge 
whether  they  see  the  world  with  the  same  eyes.  Hence  I  beg 
the  reader  to  regard  the  following  narrative  as  wholly  imper- 
sonal ;  the  word  "  I  "  will  occur  frequently,  too  frequently ; 
but  it  will  merely  represent  a  lens,  and  the  reader  is  asked  to 
look  at  the  picture  only.  There  are  some,  curious  in  such 
matters,  who  may  be  inclined  to  analyze  the  peculiarities  of 
the  lens  by  watching  the  distortion  they  will  find  in  the  pictures ; 
they  too,  I  hope,  will  not  be  disappointed,  if  frankness  will 
help. 

Now  if  there  was  anybody  likely  to  cure  one  of  mooning  and 
day-dreaming,  it  was  my  master.  His  name  was  Weavle,  but 
we  generally  called  him  Weasel.  He  was  a  carver  and  gilder 
in  High  Holborn ;  and  he  employed  three  men  and  myself. 
He  was  in  a  fair  way  of  business,  dealing  more  with  artists  than 
with  the  general  public,  and  hence  it  was  that  I  came  to  know 
so  many  artists.  His  shop  adjoined  the  Royal  Oak  Yard,  and 
the  work-room  windows  looked  into  the  stone  square  of  the 
old  Royal  Oak  Inn,  into  which,  every  forenoon,  the  Bucking- 
hamshire omnibus  is  still  driven.  How  I  used  to  look  out  of 
the  dingy  gray  panes,  and  envy  the  rosy  and  happy  faces  of 
the  people  who  came  in,  with  the  light  of  the  country  in  their 
eyes,  and  the  keen  breeze  painted  on  their  cheeks  !  How  I 
used  to  envy  the  people  who  got  up  on  that  coach,  and  were 
taken  away  out  of  the  great  close  town  !  But  to  my  master. 

Weavle  was  a  short,  thin  man,  round-shouldered,  with  a  pale 
face,  a  bald  head,  and  small  reddish-gray  eyes.  He  was  queru- 
lous and  captious  as  an  ill-bred  and  angry  woman ;  he  had  a 
shrewish  tongue,  a  diabolical  temper,  and  a  nature  so  indescrib- 
ably petty  and  mean  that  I  despair  of  conveying  any  notion  of 
it.  He  walked  about  in  thick,  soft  slippers,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  catching  his  men  in  some  small  delinquency;  and 


4  KILMENY. 

then  he  would  stand  and  scold  with  a  spite  and  ingenuity  of  epi- 
thet that  were  wonderful.  It  was,  I  believe,  the  thing  dearest 
to  his  heart,  this  angry  declamation,  in  which  he  exhibited  a 
marvellous  power  of  saying  everything  that  could  wound  a 
man's  feelings  to  quick,  and  humiliate  him  before  his  fellows. 
He  laid  traps  for  the  men.  He  slid  about  like  a  spectre,  and 
watched  them  with  the  eyes  of  a  detective.  And  he  never  went 
out  of  the  workshop  without  turning  sharply  round  to  see  if 
any  one  were  grinning  over  his  washerwoman  speeches. 

The  very  keenest  pleasure  I  have  in  life  is  this.  Sometimes, 
even  at  this  remote  period,  in  this  remote  and  foreign  town,  I 
dream  for  a  whole  night  that  I  am  again  under  Weavle's  domina- 
tion. I  have  to  submit  to  the  insult  of  his  stealthy  footsteps,  to 
the  virulence  and  meanness  of  his  scolding ;  the  old  pain  and 
heart-sickening  return,  the  bitterly  cold  mornings,  the  dull  days, 
the  hopeless  labor,  the  weary  struggle  against  poverty.  The 
daylight  breaks,  and  I  fancy  that  I  have  to  go  and  submit  to 
that  cruel,  mean  old  man.  And  then,  slowly,  as  if  sunshine  were 
filling  the  room,  I  begin  to  have  the  consciousness  that  there  is 
no  Weavle,  that  all  the  bad  time  is  past,  that  I  am  my  own 
master,  with  my  own  plenteous  time,  and  my  own  plenteous 
money — that  I  am  FREE  !  It  is  almost  worth  while  to  have  had 
one's  heart-blood  sucked  for  years  by  a  Weasel  to  know  the 
intense,  strong  joy  which  accompanies  that  conviction. 

The  man  was  not  always  mean  and  offensive  ;  at  night  he 
slept.  And  if  in  his  dreams  he  ever  saw  a  company  of  angels, 
I  know  that  his  first  instinctive  impulse  was  to  watch  them,  lest 
they  should  be  stealing  their  master's  time. 

It  was  this  poor  little  tyrant  who  first  taught  me  to  love  the 
great,  generous  forces  of  nature.  It  was  when  I  thought  of 
him,  and  of  his  unutterable  pettiness  and  suspicion,  that  I  grew 
to  know  and  love  the  sea,  the  long  swathes  of  light  across  the 
blue,  the  far-off  coast-line,  and  the  moving  splendors  of  the 
clouds.  Even  at  this  moment  I  cannot  bear  to  look  on  a  river 
or  an  estuary.  There  must  be  no  land  on  the  other  side, 
nothing. but  the  great  plain  on  which  the  winds  came  down 
darkling,  or  on  which  the  sunlight  sleeps  still  and  warm,  blurr- 
ing the  horizon-line  with  a  mist  of  heat.  Indeed,  the  whole 
bent  of  my  life,  physical  and  mental,  has  been  escape  from 
Weavle.  That  I  am  now  free  I  have  already  hinted,  and  I 
propose  to  tell  the  story  of  my  release. 

Perhaps  you  ask  if  my  companions  regarded  Weavle  as  I 
did.  First  let  me  say  a  word  about  them.  Big  Dick  was  a 
man  who  stood  six  feet  one  in  his  stocking-soles  ;  he  had  a 
massive  and  strong  frame,  a  fine  chest,  tangled  black  hair, 


MY  MASTER.  5 

and  a  handsome  face,  flushed  by  much  drinking.  His  wife 
was  dead.  He  had  a  little  boy,  whom  he  had  handed  over  to 
his  sister,  thus  leaving  him  free  to  follow  his  own  courses. 
And  regularly  as  Saturday  came  round,  so  regularly  did  Dick 
get  drunk ;  and  drunk  he  continued  until  the  following  Wednes- 
day. Then  he  would  come  in  to  his  work,  his  big  scarred 
hand,  with  its  protuberant  knuckles,  swollen  veins,  and  horny 
finger-tips,  trembling  and  uncertain,  his  eyes  bleared  and 
lustreless.  He  was  gruff,  and  would  not  speak  to  us  then. 
By  Thursday  the  black-sheep  feeling  wore  off,  and  he  set  to 
work  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  He  was  a  splendid  workman, 
and  by  the  Saturday  had  always  amassed  as  much  wages  as 
he  wanted  for  his  needs.  He  was  remarkably  good-natured, 
and  being  "  a  rare  handy  man,"  was  in  much  request  among 
the  neighbors.  He  could  glaze  and  paint,  and  hang  wall- 
papers, and  work  in  stucco— in  short,  he  could  do  everything, 
and  he  was  always  ready  to  do  it  as  a  neighborly  turn,  if  you 
allowed  him  his  necessary  liquor.  Dick  good-humoredly  said 
of  his  master  that  Weasel  could  not  hold  his  tongue  if  he 
tried,  and  that  he  did  not  mean  half  of  what  he  said.  When 
Dick  got  into  trouble,  he  bore  the  rancorous  and  scurrilous 
speechifying  with  resignation,  and  only  gave  a  sigh  of  relief 
when  Weasel  slipped  out. 

But  you  should  have  heard  what  Joe  Risley  had  to  say 
about  my  master.  Throughout  the  trade  Joe  was  known  as 
"  The  Royal  " — because,  on  Coronation-day,  Joe  had  dressed 
himself  in  a  Coronation-coat,  and,  having  got  a  little  tipsy, 
made  a  rush  forward  to  the  Queen's  carriage,  in  order  to 
shake  Her  Majesty  by  the  hand.  Joe  very  nearly  lost  his 
ear  by  a  dragoon's  sword,  and  was  picked  up  from  among  the 
horses'  feet  with  his  coat  rent  in  twain.  Perhaps  it  was  this 
circumstance  that  had  made  "  The  Royal "  a  furious,  bitter 
Radical.  He  was  a  dark-whiskered  cadaverous  man,  with 
big,  lambent  black  eyes,  a  weak  chest,  and  a  shaky  frame. 
He  had  read  extensively — especially  in  history;  and  when 
woke  up  by  some  argument  into  fierce  fight,  the  eyes  used  to 
glow,  and 'the  frail  figure  quiver  with  excitement.  But  he 
rarely  spoke  of  these  things  except  when  he  was  drunk ;  and 
then  he  would  describe  to  you  the  scattering  of  die  Allies  of 
Austerlitz  with  sweeps  of  arm  that  threatened  all  the  glasses 
near  him,  or  he  would  pronounce  a  panegyric  on  Napoleon 
which  might  have  done  Hazlitt  credit.  Napoleon  was  his  great 
hero.  He  forgave  the  conqueror  his  despotism  in  view  of  the 
terror  he  had  struck  into  the  hearts  of  "  the  leagued  band  of 
kings."  It  was  well  that  Joe  seldom  became  excited  about 


6  KILMENY. 

politics  in  the  shop ;  for  then  he  used,  in  his  enthusiasm,  to 
destroy  the  golden  leaf,*  sending  fragments  flying  into  the 
air  as  if  he  were  Napoleon  blowing  into  chaos  .a  whole  world- 
ful  of  diplomats.  "  The  Royal "  looked  upon  Weasel  as  the 
personification  of  the  tyranny  of  money,  and  used  to  curse 
him  between  his  teeth  as  a  usurper  and  an  aristocrat. 

"  Kent "  is  hardly  worth  speaking  about.  He  was  a  pale, 
flaxen-haired  young  man,  who  got  into  a  terrible  fright  when 
Weasel  caught  him  doing  anything  and  began  to  rage.  I 
scarcely  think  he  had  any  particular  desire  or  aim  in  the 
world.  He  was  content  if  he  got  his  work  done  in  time  ;  and 
sometimes,  but  rarely,  he  took  a  holiday,  which  he  spent  in 
lying  upon  Hampstead  Heath.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
friends ;  and  never  went  down  to  Dartford,  his  native  place. 
His  real  name  was,  I  think,  Taplin  or  Toplin. 

Such  were  my  companions  in  Weasel's  shop  :  but  they 
were  very  differently  situated  from  myself.  They  were  men, 
and  independent  of  other  men.  They  could  spend  a  half- 
crown  without  thinking  much  of  it.  Above  all,  they  were 
free  to  work  when  they  pleased,  to  be  idle  when  they  pleased. 
If  the  whim  came  into  their  head  (that  it  never  did  was 
always  a  puzzle  to  me),  they  could  have  snapped  their 
fingers  in  Weasel's  face,  and  gone  off  to  spend  a  whole 
day  on  the  banks  of  the  Serpentine,  assured  that  next 
morning  they  could  get  work  elsewhere.  At  least  they 
could  take  a  holiday ;  and  my  notion  of  a  holiday  was  al- 
ways associated  with  the  Serpentine.  I  had  loved  that  little 
bit  of  water  as  if  it  had  been  the  sea.  I  used  to  make  it  a 
sea  by  sitting  down  on  one  of  the  benches  and  shading  my 
eyes  so  as  to  hide  the  opposite  bank — so  that  I  could  see 
nothing  but  the  gray  rippling  water,  hear  nothing  but  the 
wind  in  the  trees  overhead ;  and  then  I  grew  almost  faint  with 
the  dull  dumb  joy  of  being  alone  by  the  sea.  I  forgot  the 
rich  people  who  were  riding  up  and  down  the  Row  behind  me  ; 
I  saw  none  of  the  poor  idling  loungers  who  stood  at  the  end 
of  the  lake,  and  threw  crumbs  or  stones  at  the  ducks.  There 
was  nothing  before  me  but  the  wind-stirred  water,  and  where 

*  I  need  hardly  say  that  Weavle  cheated.  He  never  allowed  a  leaf  of 
"  deep  red  "  to  be  used  where  "  Dutch  metal "  could  be  used  in  its  place  ; 
and,  instead  of  the  ordinary  varieties  of  "  lemon,"  he  had  all  manner  of 
foreign  abominations,  which  invariably  turned  green  or  black  in  course 
of  time.  Big  Dick  rebelled  against  this  more  than  against  the  scolding  ; 
for  he  was  proud  of  his  work,  and  he  did  not  like  to  let  a  frame  leave  his 
hands  which  he  knew  would  change  its  color  after  being  hung  up  in 
some  gentleman's  room,  and  subjected  to  London  gas  for  ten  or  twelve 
months. 


MY  HOME.  7 

I  could  see  no  more  water,  I  imagined  water  until  it  touched 
the  sky.  Sometimes  J  fancied  I  could  hear  the  sound  of 
waves  on  the  far-off  coast ;  sometimes  I  fancied  I  could  see, 
just  on  the  line  of  the  horizon,  a.  faint  white  speck  of  a  ship 
appear,  catching  a  touch  of  gold  from  the  sunset.  The  Ser- 
pentine is  small  and  insignificant,  doubtless;  but  so  is  a  sea- 
shell,  and  the  sea-shell,  if  you  are  alone,  and  if  you  listen 
closely,  will  tell  you  stories  of  the  sea. 

As  I  dreamed  there,  on  certain  rare  occasions,  I  grew  to 
think  that  life,  for  me,  was  scarcely  worth  the  having.  My 
existence  was  a  blunder.  I  was  not  fitted  to  cope  with  the 
forces  around  me,  and  wrest  from  them  that  alone  which 
would  have  made  life  endurable.  I  had  no  clear  idea  of  what 
that  was  :  I  only  knew  that  it  was  unattainable.  What  lay 
before  me  ?  A  life  similar  to  that  pursued  by  my  companions 
in  Weasel's  shop  would  have  been  sufficiently  distasteful,  even 
had  I  had  the  fine  physique  and  good-humor  of  Big  Dick,  the 
keen  interest  in  political  affairs  of  Risley,  or  even  Kent's  im- 
perturbable temperament.  What  was  the  use  of  me  to  any- 
body— to  myself  even  ?  The  mere  object  of  keeping  one's 
self  alive  with  nothing  to  look  forward  to  but  the  endless 
round  of  work,  in  which  one  could  take  no  interest,  was  dis- 
heartening in  the  extreme.  Many  and  many  a  time  I  wished 
that  I  could  compress  my  whole  life  into  a  few  moments,  and 
make  it  useful  to  some  one  who  would  kindly  thank  me  for 
it.  One  of  those  beautiful  women,  for  example,  who  rode  by  ! 
Could  I  not  throw  away  my  life  at  her  feet,  doing  her  some 
slight  service,  and  earn  from  her  the  gratitude  of  a  smile  ? 
My  life  was  a  weariness  to  myself :  could  I  make  it  heroic 
and  worthy  even  for  a  second,  by  yielding  it  to  the  service  of 
one  of  those  peerless  women,  who  were  so  far  away  from  me 
— so  cold  and  beautiful  and  distant  ? 

As  I  sit  here,  under  a  blue  and  Southern  sky,  thinking  of 
that  old,  sad,  ridiculous  time,  some  one  looks  over  my  shoul- 
der, and  reads  these  words,  and  laughs. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MY  HOME. 


IT  was  the  month  of  primroses  ;  and  the  wind  blue  fresh 
and  mellow  with  the  promise  of  the  summer.  Even  in  the 
London  streets  there  was  a  strange  sweetness  in  the  air,  and 


8  KILMENY. 

a  new,  keen  light  in  the  sky.  And  on  that  morning,  when 
I  was  free  to  go  home  for  a  whole  couple  of  days,  the  spring 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  clear  leap  ahead,  and  got  into  a  fine 
breezy  summer  warmth.  As  I  made  my  way  to  the  Great 
Western  Railway  Station,  the  gray  dawn  broke  into  a  pale 
saffron,  and  the  light  lay  along  the  tall,  silent  houses  and 
their  rows  of  windows.  Beautiful  houses  they  were — up  by 
Park  Lane  and  Connaught  Place  and  Eastbourne  Terrace — 
but  I  was  no  longer  oppressed  by  them,  or  by  the  grand  peo- 
ple who  lived  in  them.  I  snapped  my  fingers  at  the  closed 
white  shutters  and  the  lowered  green  blinds.  I  laughed  aloud 
in  the  empty  streets,  to  the  amazement  of  solitary  policemen. 
I  skipped  and  hopped,  and  tried  to  jump  impossible  jumps  ; 
so  that  I  reached  the  station  half  an  hour  too  soon,  and 
speedily  got  sobered  down  by  the  melancholy  gloom  of  the 
place  and  the  official  gravity  of  the  porters. 

But  then  again,  as  the  train  got  out  and  away  from  London 
— leaving  Holland  Park  and  its  tall  houses  pale  and  silvery 
in  the  east — and  we  were  among  the  warm  bright  meadows 
and  fields — with  the  sunlight  shimmering  over  the  young 
green  of  the  trees — with  the  sweet,  pure,  spring  wind  rushing 
through  the  open  windows  of  the  carriage — with  the  joyous 
motion  of  the  train,  and  the  thought  of  utter,  unrestrained 
freedom  and  pleasure  for  two  entire  long  days — was  it  possi- 
ble that  I  should  feel  unkindly  to  any  man  or  place  ?  I 
blessed  London — after  Notting  Hill  was  long  out  of  sight. 
I  began  to  think  "  Kent "  almost  an  enlivening  sort  of  person, 
and  very  nearly  forgave  Weasel. 

There  were  to  be  grand  doings  at  Burnham  House,  and  at 
Burnham,  the  little  village  down  in  the  heart  of  Bucks,  where 
my  father  and  mother  lived.  Miss  Hester  Burnham,  the  last 
of  that  long  line  which  had  given  several  prominent  names 
to  English  history — particularly  during  the  great  King-and- 
Parliament  struggle — had  just  come  home  from  France  to  live 
in  England.  My  father  was  head-keeper  at  Burnham — a  man 
who  ought  to  have  been  born  in  feudal  times  ;  and  it  was 
somehow  his  notion  of  what  was  right  and  proper  that  I, 
though  having  nothing  to  do  with  Burnham,  ought  to  be  there 
when  this  important  event  came  off.  Fain  would  I  have 
gone  down  on  the  top  of  the  coach  that  daily  leaves  Holborn 
for  these  quiet  Buckinghamshire  parts,  and  done  the  journey 
in  the  old  picturesque  fashion  ;  but  I  should  have  reached 
Burnham  too  late  in  the  evening ;  and  so  I  had  to  take  rail 
to  Wycombe,  and  walk  across  to  that  little  village  which  has 
been  for  centuries  a  sort  of  appanage  to  Burnham  House. 


.i/r  HOME.  9 

I  had  very  little  interest  either  in  Miss  Hester  Burnham 
or  in  the  doings  that  were  to  celebrate  her  return.  I  remem- 
ber her  only  as  a  little  <^irl,  with  dark  hair  and  staring1  eyes, 
who  used  to  ride  about  on  a  white  pony,  and  was  greatly  pet- 
ted by  the  farmers  and  their  wives — indeed,  by  everybody. 
Doubtless  Miss  Hester  was  now  a  fine  lady,  come  home  from 
France  to  set  up  her  state  in  the  great  old  house,  where  her 
people  had  lived  for  centuries.  Indeed,  so  little  did  I  think 
of  the  whole  matter  that  I  forgot  that  Miss  Hester  could 
scarcely  be  sixteen  years  of  age. 

So  it  was  that,  when  I  reached  Wycombe,  instead  of  walk- 
ing straight  over  to  Burnham,  I  set  forth  on  a  ramble  across 
the  long  chalk  hills  and  through  the  dense  beech-woods 
which  were  once  so  familiar  to  me. 

How  well  I  knew  every  house  and  orchard  and  field,  as 
the  road  gradually  rose  and  brought  into  view  the  deep  and 
pleasant  valleys  that  were  now  so  deep  and  warm  !  Night 
after  night,  in  my  poor  London  lodgings,  I  had  laid  with  open 
.eyes  and  dreamed  of  these  woods  and  hills  and  hollows  ;  and 
lo  !  here  they  were — not  as  I  had  imagined  them — but  under 
the  bewildering  glare  of  the  spring  light. 

Yet  the  day  was  not  one  of  strong  sunshine.  There  was  a 
thin,  transparent  yellow  mist,  that  did  not  so  much  obscure 
the  sunlight  as  conceal  the  directness  of  its  rays  ;  and  while 
you  could  not  turn  to  any  point  of  the  sky  and  say  the  sun 
was  there,  you  felt  that  it  was  all  around  you,  shining  in  the 
intense  pellucid  green  of  the  young  hawthorn  leaves,  and 
causing  the  breaks  in  the  distant  chalk-hills  to  gleam  like 
silver.  Then  all  the  wonders  of  the  spring  were  out — the 
rich-colored  japonica  in  front  of  the  laborers'  cottages,  the 
white  masses  of  petals  on  the  great  pear-trees,  the  big  flo\vers 
of  the  cherries,  and  the  rose-tinted  scarcely  unfolded  apple- 
blossom,  sprinkled  here  and  there  with  little  bunches  of  woolly 
leaves.  Here,  too,  were  all  the  spring  flowers  about  the 
hedges  and  banks ;  and  the  spring  freshness  and  brilliancy 
upon  the  young  leaves  of  the  chestnuts  and  the  elms  and  the 
ash.  The  limes  were  black  yet ;  the  tall  and  graceful  birch 
had  only  a  tinge  of  green  on  its  drooping  branches ;  and  the 
interminable  beechwoods — the  glory  of  Buckinghamshire  in 
the  time  when  they  grow  red  and  orange  and  crimson — 
showed  as  yet  only  a  dull  purple,  caught  from  the  ruddy  and 
twisted  buds.  And  over  all  these  things  brooded  the  warmth 
of  that  pale  yellow  light — so  calm  and  still  and  silent,  but  for 
the  pearly  music  of  a  lark  that  was  lost  in  it ;  and  the  woods, 
also,  and  the  long  low  valleys,  seemed  to  be  hushed  into  a 


10  KILMENY. 

drowsy  silence,  broken  now  and  again  by  the  clear,  strong 
piping  of  a  thrush  in  one  of  the  blossom-laden  orchards.  It 
was  all  so  different  from  London. 

Through  these  beech-woods,  strewn  with  dead  leaves,  and 
matted  with  brier  and  breckan,  I  joyously  went  until  I  issued 
upon  the  summit  of  the  hill,  upon  the  steep  side  of  which  is 
cut  the  great  white  cross  that  can  be  seen  all  the  way  from 
Oxford.  The  old  grand  picture  of  that  immense  intervening 
plain  was  once  more  before  me.  Princes  Risborough,  with 
its  red-tiled  houses  and  its  church,  lying  down  there  under 
the  faint  blue  smoke  of  the  village ;  the  long  white  road 
leading  on  to  Bledlow  ;  the  comfortable  farmsteads  smothered 
among  orchards ;  then  the  great  patchwork  of  fields  with 
their  various  colors — the  red  and  brown  fallow,  the  dark 
green  of  the  young  clover,  the  fine  tint  of  the  wheat,  here  and 
there  already  yellowed  with  charlock  ;  the  sharp,  black  lines 
of  the  hedges  gradually  getting  closer  and  fainter  as  the  eye 
rose  to  the  horizon,  and  there  becoming  a  confused  mass  of 
misty  streaks ;  on  the  right  the  remote  uplands,  with  their 
larch-plantations,  and  here  and  there  a  white  house  shining  in 
the  sun  ;  down  on  the  left  the  continuing  line  of  the  chalk 
hills,  rounded  and  smooth,  where  they  became  visible  from 
among  the  dusky  stretches  of  the  beech-woods  ;  and  far  on 
in  front,  half  lost  in  the  shimmer  of  light  along  the  edge  of 
the  sky,  the  pale  blue  plain  of  Oxfordshire,  indeterminate 
and  vague. 

How  long  I  lay  on  the  shoulder  of  White-cross  Hill,  with 
the  dazzling  glare  of  the  concealed  sun  lying  warm  and  crim- 
son on  my  shut  eyelids,  I  cannot  say.  I  was  outside  of  all 
distressing  conditions — absolutely  free,  and  without  a  thought 
for*  anything  or  anybody,  including  myself.  It  was  enough 
to  be  in  the  fresh  and  beautiful  air,  to  be  alone,  to  be  able  to 
dream.  And  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  lay  there,  that  there  were 
fairies  hovering  over  me,  and  that  the  warm  spring  air^  blow- 
ing over  my  face,  was  only  their  tickling  my  forehead  with 
their  small  handkerchiefs.  Or  was  it  with  spikes  of  feather- 
grass? I  lay  and  pictured  their  walking  around  me  in  all 
sorts  of  picturesque  and  shining  costumes — the  small  gentle- 
men with  helmets  of  acorn-cups,  and  shields  made  out  of  the 
shell  of  the  green  beetle  ;  the  small  ladies  with  parasols  formed 
out  of  a  curved  rose-leaf,  and  bonnets  of  white  larkspur. 
Then,  somehow,  a  thought  of  Weasel  intervened ;  I  got  up 
impatiently,  and  made  to  go  down  the  hill  and  get  back  to 
Burn  ham. 

I  then  found  that  a  pair  of  new  boots  I  had  put  on  that  morn- 


MY  I/O  Ml-:.  II 

ing — assisted,  doubtless,  by  the  mad  jumping  and  hopping  of 
my  progress  to  the  station — had  severely  hurt  my 
Indeed,  when  I  reached  the  foot  of  White-cross  Hill,  I  found 
it  impossible  to  put  one  foot  to  the  ground,  so  intense  was  the 
pain  which  the  pressure  caused.  Under  the  circumstances,  1 
took  the  only  course  open  to  me — sat  down,  pulled  off  my 
boots  and  stockings,  put  the  latter  in  the  former,  and,  slinging 
the  whole  over  my  shoulder,  prepared  to  walk  barefooted  until 
I  should  near  Burnham.  Perhaps  by  that  time  I  might  be 
able  to  pull  my  boots  on  again;  if  not — and  the  chances 
were  against  it — I  should  have  to  put  a  bold  face  on  the 
matter,  and  walk  with  absurdly  white  feet  up  to  my  mother's 
door. 

But,  as  I  yet  rested,  I  heard  a  pattering  of  horses'  hoofs, 
and,  looking  around,  saw  a  couple  of  riders  coming  along  the 
white  road.  The  glare  of  the  light  was  in  my  eyes ;  but  I 
could  make  out  that  the  one  was  a  young  girl,  the  other  a 
youngish  gentleman,  though  considerably  older  than  she.  It 
struck  me  at  the  moment  that  very  likely  this  would  be  Miss 
Burnham  ;  and  so  I  sat  still,  that  I  might  see  her  well  as  she 
passed.  Besides  there  has  always  seemed  to  me  something 
very  fine  and  stately  and  beautiful  in  the  position  of  a  woman 
(who  can  ride  at  all  decently)  on  horseback,  and  in  these  days 
lady-riders  wore  long  skirts,  which  greatly  added  to  the  effect 
of  their  appearance.  So  they  came  cantering  along  the  dusty 
road ;  and  just  before  they  reached  me,  the  light  was  so  altered 
that  I  could  distinctly  see  them. 

My  first  thought  was,  "  How  quickly  girls  grow  in  France  ! " 

My  second,  "  What  a  sweet  face  !  " 

Pale  it  was,  and  dark  (at  least  it  seemed  dark  in  shadow), 
scarcely  surrounded  by  loose  masses  of  brown  hair  that  the 
wind  had  blown  back  from  her  hat.  You  could  not  tell  what 
the  features  were,  for  the  wonderful  eyes  of  the  face  caught 
you  and  kept  you  there.  As  she  swept  past,  she  drove  a  sin- 
gle glance  right  through  me  ;  and  I  thought  that  I  had  seen  a 
vision  of  all  the  sweetness  and  gracious  kindliness  of  woman- 
hood revealed  by  this  one  swift  look.  Here,  at  least,  was  a 
gentlewoman  in  nature,  one  who  was  not  supercilious,  or 
cursed  by  conventional  pride.  I  looked  after  her,  and  1  said 
to  myself,  "  There,  now,  if  you  could  do  any  service  to  one 
such  as  she  is,  life  would  not  be  quite  worthless." 

Then  I  saw  her,  before  she  had  gone  twenty  yards,  pull  up 
her  horse.  Her  companion,  a  young  man  of  about  twenty-two, 
fair-haired,  apparently  tall,  and  with  cold  gray  eyes,  followed 
her  example. 


12  KILMENY. 

She  said  something  to  him — he  shrugged  his  shoulders — 
and,  as  well  as  I  could  hear,  said  he  had  no  coppers. 

"  Give  me  silver,  then  ! "  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  girlish 
petulance  ;  and  then  he  handed  something  to  her. 

She  wheeled  round  her  horse  and  rode  up  to  where  I  sat. 
I  could  not  understand  all  this.  She  held  out  her  hand.  I 
rose,  expecting  her  to  say  something.  She  still  held  out  her 
hand,  and  I,  reaching  up  mine,  received  into  it  a  half-crown. 
Still  I  stood,  stupefied,  wondering  what  the  beautiful  blue-gray 
eyes,  under  those  long  black  eyelashes,  meant;  and  then,  be- 
fore I  had  recovered  myself,  and  without  a  word,  she  turned 
her  horse  again  and  rode  away. 

It  was  all  the  work  of  a  second ;  and  for  some  little  time 
I  was  too  bewildered  to  know  what  had  occurred.  At  last, 
when  I  saw  the  white  half-crown  lie  in  my  hand,  a  sensation 
which  I  shall  never  forget  came  over  me — a  sensation  of 
consuming,  intolerable  shame.  This  was  what  the  kindliness 
of  her  eyes  meant,  that  I  was  a  beggar  and  she  pitied  me.  I 
felt  my  face  grow  white  and  cold,  and  then  burn  red  with 
confusion  and  anger.  To  have  alms  thrown  to  me  by  the 
wayside,  to  be  treated  as  a  common  beggar — the  very  thought 
of  it  seemed  to  crush  me  with  a  deadening,  burning  weight, 
that  was  scarcely  relieved  by  wild  anticipations  of  revenge. 
Was  not  my  mother  a  gentlewoman,  too,  although  only  the 
daughter  of  a  poor  clergyman,  when  my  father,  then  a  young 
gardener,  got  so  madly  in  love  with  her  that  even  his  notions 
of  duty  were  unable  to  prevent  his  running  away  with  her  ? 
And  was  not  his  careful  and  respectful  behavior  to  her 
— now  that  they  had  been  married  something  like  eighteen 
years — a  wonder  to  the  neighbors,  and  a  greater  wonder  to  my 
mother's  old  friends,  who  had  prophesied  the  usual  conse- 
quences of  her  folly  ?  Nay,  had  not  the  Burnhams  been 
always  tenderly  considerate  to  my  mother,  though  she  was 
only  the  wife  of  their  head  keeper ;  and  who  was  it  that 
taught  this  very  Miss  Hester  the  little  accomplishments  of 
a  gentlewoman  before  she  \vent  to  her  Parisian  schools  ? 
These  things,  and  others,  I  thought  over;  but  the  accursed 
white  half-crown  lay  out  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  whither 
it  had  rolled  after  I  flung  it  violently  to  the  ground ;  and 
the  mere  sight  of  it  seemed  to  make  my  eyes  bum. 

And  yet  she  had  a  kindly  face.  I  could  recall  the  very 
look  with  which  she  had  regarded  me  ;  and  somehow  it  took 
me  back  to  old  times.  But  to  receive  alms  from  her  !  I  sat 
clown  by  the  wayside  once  more,  and  buried  my  face  in  my 
hands,  and  burst  into  tears,  the  bitterest  I  have  ever  shed. 


MY  UNCLE  JOB,  13 

CHAPTER  III. 

MY   UNCLE  JOB. 

THE  broad  gray  front  of  Burnhnm  House  has  stood  these 
couple  of  hundred  years  and  more  at  the  head  of  one  of  the 
finest  avenues  in  England — an  avenue  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  in  length,  and  at  least  three  hundred  yards  broad,  lead- 
ing up  from  the  valley  in  a  straight  line  to  the  building  on 
the  top  of  the  hill.  Many  a  goodly  company  has  cantered 
up  and  down  that  splendid  ride,  with  its  dense,  mossy,  close 
green  turf,  its  patches  of  furze  and  broom  and  breckan. 
On  either  side  stands  a  row  of  magnificent  Spanish  chest- 
nuts ;  on  the  one  hand  skirting  the  woods  that  slope  down 
to  the  Amersham  road,  on  the  other  forming  the  boundary- 
line  of  Burnham  Park.  The  House  itself,  fronting  this 
spacious  avenue,  commands  the  broad  valley  that  stretches 
for  miles  eastward ;  and  from  almost  any  point  around  you 
can  see  from  afar  the  gray  frontage  of  the  old  building, 
gleaming  like  gold  in  the  sunshine,  high  up  there  among  the 
trees.  Just  outside  what  is  called  the  "  ladies'  garden " 
stands  the  little  old  church,  whose  walls  are  covered  with 
marble  memorials  of  the  Burnhams ;  and  from  thence  a 
narrow  road,  dividing  the  park,  leads  across  the  summit  of 
the  hill  to  Burnham  village  and  Burnham  Common.  The 
place,  with  all  its  historical  associations  of  the  times  of  the 
Civil  War,  is  little  known  by  Englishmen ;  but  it  is  familiar 
to  Americans,  and  Frenchmen  visit  it,  and  Germans  write 
about  it ;  and  in  St.  Petersburg  you  can  buy  photographs  of 
Burnham  and  Burnham  Church,  and  of  the  monumental 
stone  erected  to  John  Burnham,  the  friend  and  colleague  of 
Cromwell. 

Before  coming  near  Burnham,  I  cooled  my  feet  in  a  small 
stream  that  runs  along  the  valley,  and  managed  to  pull  on 
my  boots  again.  The  pain  of  walking  was  intense ;  but  I 
did  not  mind  it  so  much  now.  When  I  got  to  the  lodge,  I 
went  in  and  borrowed  a  spade  from  the  lodge-keeper. 

"  Why,  I  bain't  a  wolf,  Mahster  Ives,"  said  he ;  "  you 
needn't  speak  to  a  mahn  as  if  he  wur  a  wolf." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  uncivil,"  I  said. 

"It  wur  only  my  fun,"  he  said,  bringing  the  spade  ;  "but 
you  did  look  a  bit  vexed  and  hout  o'  sorts." 

That  I  might  not  be  seen  by  any  of  the  people  who  were 
now  at  the  House,  I  passed  into  the  wood  by  the  side  of  the 


I4  KILMENY. 

avenue,  and  made  my  \vay  through  the  thick  undergrowth  to 
a  deep  cleft  or  dell  in  which  we  children,  who  had  the  entree 
to  the  woods  of  Burnham,  used  to  play.  We  had  had  a 
notio'n  of  getting  up  some  kind  of  grotto  there,  and  a  large 
number  of  big  stones  were  still  strewn  about  the  edge  of  the 
wooded  pit.  The  biggest  of  these  I  placed  on  my  shoulder  ; 
and  then  made  my  way  down  through  the  tangled  brier  and 
bushes  to  the  bottom  of  the  dell.  There  I  dug  a  hole  about 
a  foot  square  and  a  foot  deep.  I  flung  the  half-crown  into  the 
hole — I  think  I  struck  at  it  with  the  spade  in  impotent  rage 
— and,  covering  it  up,  put  the  big  stone  over  the  place. 

"  That  is  the  first  alms  I  ever  had  offered  me,"  I  said  aloud 
— and  my  voice  had  a  strange  sound  in  the  dell — "  and  that 
is  what  I  did  with  it." 

I  took  the  spade  back  to  the  lodge-keeper. 

"  Why,  Master  Ted,"  said  he,  "you  look  as  if  you'd  gone 
and  buried  your  sour  looks.  You  be  younger  and  brighter 
by  a  dozen  years  than  you  wur  when  you  axed  me  for  the 
spaad.  And  it's  a  good  spaad,  too." 

"  It's  a  capital  spade,"  I  said.  "  Did  Miss  Burnham  pass 
up  to  the  House  lately  ?  " 

"  Yaas,  she  did." 

"  On  horseback,  with  some  one  with  her." 

"  Yaas." 

"Who  was  he?" 

"  That  be  a  son  o'  Colonel  Burnham's — Mr.  Alfred — and 
he  be  a  diwle  to  curse  and  swear,  he  be." 

"  I  suppose  he  means  to  marry  Miss  Burnham  ?  " 

"  Lor'  bless  ye,  there  wun't  be  thoughts  o'  marrying  in 
her  'ed  for  yurs  yet.  And  when  she  do  marry  she'll  marry 
a  properer  mahn  than  Y;;z.  I  bain't  much  of  a  weatherwise 
mysel',  but  I  doant  think  much  o'  that  ere  'errin'-gutted 
young  feller.  He's  bin  to  college,  I  reckon,  and  learnt  to 
play  cahrds,  and  swear  at  ye  as  if  ye  wur  a  dead  stoat." 

I  saw  that  old  Joshua  Tubb  knew  very  little  about  Mr. 
Alfred  Burnham,  but  that  he  was  inclined  to  guess  the  worst, 
probably  by  reason  of  his  having  suffered  a  little  of  the 
young  gentleman's  strong  language. 

"  He's  living  up  at  the  House,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yaas,  and  his  father,  and  lots  mower  on  'em.  The  old 
plaace  begins  to  look  live-like  now." 

I  went  up  by  the  side  of  the  avenue  to  cross  over  to  Burn- 
ham,  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  the  House.  It  seemed  to  me 
just  then  that  all  the  hateful  influences  I  feared  and  loathed 
were  within  that  gaunt  gray  building;  and  that  it  also  held  the 


MY  UNCLE  JO/J.  15 

first  human  being  who  had  ever  thought  so  meanly  of  me  as 
in  make  me  a  beggar.  If  you  consider  that  it  was  at  the  very 
moment  when  I  was  rejoicing  in  my  freedom  from  that  sense 
of  constraint  and  inferiority  which  the  town  pressed  down  up- 
on me  that  she  appeared,  and  brought  home  to  me  the  im- 
measurable distance  that  lay  between  my  insignificance  and 
helplessness  and  the  beautiful  independence  and  strength 
and  power  of  the  rich  and  lovely,  you  will  understand  how  I 
felt  towards  her.  I  had  begun  to  forget  what  I  was :  she 
came,  and  seemed  to  say — 

"  You  have  no  right  to  rejoice  in  the  free  air  and  the  light. 
You  must  not  imagine  yourself  equal  with  other  people,  even 
by  forgetting  their  existence." 

When  1  reached  the  small  cottage,  fronting  Burnham  Com- 
mon, in  which  I  was  born,  I  found  my  mother  training  some 
creeper  up  the  outside  wall  around  the  window  ;  while  my 
father  stood  by,  waiting  upon  her  and  assisting  her  as  he 
could.  They  were  very  unlike — he  a  tall,  brown,  sun-tanned 
keeper,  with  a  hook  nose,  gray  eyes,  scant  whiskers,  and 
ruddy  hair  ;  she  a  small,  tender,  black-eyed  woman,  who 
had  at  one  time  been  very  good-looking,  and  who  even  now 
was  pretty  and  neat  and  engaging.  This  little,  sensitive 
woman,  who  never  spoke  a  harsh  word  to  anybody,  who 
could  not  even  scold  an  unruly  dog,  had  this  big  man  her  ab- 
solute slave.  I  think  he  was  fonder  of  her  then  than  when 
he  persuaded  her  to  run  away  from  her  father's  home  with 
him.  Naturally,  he  was  rather  overbearing  in  his  manner — 
at  least  he  was  extremely  practical  in  his  aims,  very  plain- 
spoken,  and  inclined  to  regard  everybody  who  did  not  agree 
with  him  as  more  or  less  a  fool ;  and  yet  with  her  you  could 
see  that  he  was  always  most  studiously  courteous  and  gen- 
tle and  tender.  Even  his  manner  towards  myself  I  attributed 
in  part  to  the  notion  he  had  somehow  got  of  my  mother  and 
myself  being  of  a  different  race  from  his  own — or  being  some 
how  superior  to  the  people  round  about.  It  was  this  feeling, 
I  imagine,  that  induced  him  to  send  me  to  London,  when  the 
situation  in  Weasel's  place  was  offered,  rather  than  allow  me 
to  grow  up  to  the  ordinary  routine  of  farm  work. 

After  the  customary  greetings  and  inquiries,  I  went  inside 
to  get  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  sat  down  in  our  little  front  room, 
which  looked  out  on  a  bit  of  garden  and  the  common.  By 
this  time  the  sunlight  had  so  far  dispersed  the  faint  swathes 
of  mist  as  to  show  along  the  sky  a  strong  glow  of  pale  gold, 
streaked  across  with  bands  of  cirrus  clouds,  which  gleamed 
white  and  silvery  in  the  warm  yellow  light.  Burnham  village 


'i<5  KILMENY. 

is  very  pretty  and  picturesque  in  its  high-lying  position  ;  its 
few  scattered  cottages  and  gardens  fronting  the  undulations 
of  the  furze-covered  common,  and  looking  towards  a  long 
stretch  of  woodland  beyond,  which  encloses  the  small  colony 
and  shelters  it  from  the  wind.  I  was  gazing  out  from  the 
shadow  of  the  room  upon  this  secluded  little  place — so  warm 
and  silent  under  the  heat  and  light — and  was  relapsing  into 
the  old  feeling  of  dreamy  contentment,  when  a  sudden  appari- 
tion awoke  the  bitterness  and  shame  I  had  experienced  in 
the  morning.  Miss  Hester  Burnham  walked  up  to  the  little 
green  gate,  and  entered  our  front  garden.  She  came  forward, 
with  the  sunlight  and  a  smile  on  her  face,  to  shake  hands  with 
my  mother  ;  and,  but  for  the  difference  in  dress,  I  think  you 
could  have  taken  them  for  mother  and  daughter.  I  was  too 
exasperated  and  ashamed  to  pay  attention  to  such  things  ; 
but  I  can  look  back  and  see  that  at  this  moment,  standing  in 
the  sunlight  of  the  garden,  she  must  have  been  exceedingly 
pretty.  The  slight  and  girlish  figure  was  small  and  delicate, 
exquisitely  proportioned,  and  gracious  and  graceful  in  every 
motion.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  darker  than  my  mother's 
eyes  ;  but  they  were  not.  They  were  of  a  soft  grayish  blue, 
quiet  and  tender  in  expression  ;  but  what  made  them  dark  in 
appearance  was  the  long  and  almost  black  eyelashes  which 
deepened  their  meaning,  and  added  singularly  to  the  beauty 
of  her  profile.  Then  her  eyebrows  were  high,  finely  curved, 
and  black ;  and  a  profusion  of  dark  hair  fell  about  the  rather 
pale  face,  and  down  on  the  white  small  neck  and  the  delicate 
small  shoulders.  As  for  her  features — you  could  not  see  them 
for  looking  at  her  eyes.  They  may  have  been  regular,  irreg- 
ular— anything :  all  you  could  distinctly  say  was  that  there 
appeared  a  singular  light  and  life  about  them,  with  an  occa- 
sional touch  of  gravity  which  was  beyond  the  girl's  years. 
The  eyes  seemed  to  have  too  much  sympathy  in  them  for  one 
so  young ;  and  yet  in  their  wise  truthfulness  you  could  see 
that  there  was  no  trace  of  affected  interest.  I  can  remember 
how  she  looked  into  my  mother's  face,  with  those  tender, 
thoughtful,  and  beautiful  eyes.  I  can  remember,  too,  that  she 
was  dressed  very  neatly — in  a  tight-fitting,  slate-gray  costume, 
that  had  lines  of  white  about  it,  and  just  a  touch  of  scarlet 
ribbon  near  the  neck.  She  wore  a  small  gray  hat  with  a  sin- 
gle gleaming  red  feather  in  it ;  I  think  she  had  a  riding-whip  in 
her  hand  ;  and  she  had  a  sprig  of  crimson  heath  in  her  bosom. 
"  Mrs.  Ives,"  she  said — and  her  voice  had  the  soft,  con- 
tralto mellowness  that  made  my  mother's  voice  so  tender  and 
pleasant — "  I  must  trouble  you  again ;  I  really  think  you  must 


MY  UNCLE  JOB.  17 

let  me  coax  you  to  live  at  the  House  altogether.  I  very,  very 
much  want  you  to  come  now  and  help  me  among  all  those 
tiivsonu1  people.  Can  you  come  at  one?  " 

"Certainly,  Miss  Hester." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  go  in  and  wait  until  you're  ready  ?  " 
she  said,  with  a  sort  of  girlish  impatience  that  made  my 
mother  smile. 

"  No,  Miss  Hester,  you  need  not  wait ;  I  will  be  over  at 
the  House  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Then  I  will  wait.  You  see  how  you  have  spoiled  me  with 
your  kindness  ;  and  so — and  so — " 

I  heard  her  come  into  the  passage  ;  and  I  rose. 

"  My  son  is  within,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Oh,  that's  Ted,"  I  heard  her  say,  "  who  used  to  be  my 
great  friend,  and  my  champion  when  I  got  into  trouble  with 
old  Joshua.  Is  he  in  here  ?  " 

The  door  was  opened,  and  she  advanced  a  single  step.  I 
saw  the  peculiar,  frighted  glance  she  directed  towards  me  : 
then  her  face  grew  scarlet,  and  for  a  moment  she  stood  in 
direful  confusion.  For  myself,  I  said  nothing  and  did  nothing ; 
but  my  blood  was  up  in  rebellion,  I  knew. 

Then,  with  a  wonderful  graciousness  and  the  frankest  of 
smiles — I  could  not  help  admiring  the  ease  with  which  her 
fashionable  education  enabled  her  to  extricate  herself  from 
this  embarrassment — she  came  forward,  and  held  out  her 
hand,  and  said — 

"  May  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me  ? " 

I  said,  coldly  enough  perhaps — 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive." 

Her  eyes  met  mine  for  a  moment ;  and  I  knew  that  her  wo- 
man's wit — wonderfully  ingenious  even  in  a  girl  like  that — 
was  wrestling  with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case.  Then  (all 
this  had  happened  in  a  moment,  and  her  hand  was  still  ex- 
tended she  said  in  a  low  voice  that  was  intended  not  to  let 
my  mother  hear — 

"  I  will  take  it  back,  and  then  I  will  ask  you  to  forgive  me. 
It  was  a  mistake — I  am  very,  very  sorry." 

Then  it  flashed  upon  me  that  I  could  not  give  her  back 
that  accursed  piece  of  money  which  was  lying  buried  down 
in  the  dell ;  and  I  knew  she  would  fancy  that  I  had  accepted 
the  alms — that  I  had  already  spent  the  money.  The  horror 
and  agony  of  that  one  moment  was  worse  than  all  that  had 
gone  before.  If  there  was  one  thing  that  I  was  proud  of  it 
was  my  pride.  It  was  my  only  possession ;  I  had  need  to 
preserve  it.  And  now  the  only  creature  belonging  to  those 


IS  k'H.MEXY. 

gifted  people  who  held  the  world  in  their  hand  who  had  ever 
descended  so  far  as  to  speak  to  me  (and  in  the  old  days  to  be 
a  sort  of  patronizing  little  friend  to  me)  had  offered  me  alms, 
and  she  would  imagine  that  I  had  sold  my  birth-right  of  in- 
dependence for  this  wretched  bit  of  money. 

"  I — I  have  not  got  it — I  cannot  give  it  to  you,"  I  stam- 
mered ;  and  then,  half  conscious  of  the  wonder  and  astonish- 
ment of  her  eyes,  I  went  past  her,  and  out  of  the  room,  and 
out  of  the  house. 

I  went  out  into  the  cool  air  of  the  afternoon,  feeling  that  I 
had  the  brand  of  Cain  on  my  forehead.  Was  I  not  a  con- 
victed pauper?  I  walked  away  from  Burnham,  over  the 
park,  into  the  strip  of  wood  by  the  avenue,  and  down  into  that 
dell.  The  stone  was  still  there.  My  first  impulse  was  to  dig 
up  the  half-crown  again,  and  take  it  to  her,  and  throw  it  at 
her  feet ;  but  how  could  I  make  the  explanation  ?  No ;  it  should 
remain  there,  and  she  might  think  of  it  all  just  as  she  liked. 

At  that  moment  I  heard  voices  above — of  two  men  who 
were  walking  along  the  avenue,  I  heard  some  snatch  of  con- 
versation like  this  : 

— "Not  much,  certainly.  But  there  is  the  House  and 
grounds — a  fortune  in  themselves." 

"  You  would  not  sell  them  ?  " 

"  I  would,  if  I  had  the  chance." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you'd  send  that  poor  little  girl  adrift,  and 
spend  her  money  on  Clara  Beauchamp.  Well,  Alfred,  you 
have  got  a  wonderful  decision  about  you,  to  put  it  mildly." 

"  Clara  is  a  devilish  fine  girl ;  though  she  ought  to  have 
taken  some  other  name  than  Beauchamp  when  she  started  on 
her  career.  As  for  my  cousin  Hester,  you  know  I  shall  be 
compelled  to  get  money  somewhere,  and  she  has  got  such  a 
d — d  smooth  temper,  she  would  stand  anything — " 

That  was  all  I  heard ;  but  it  was  enough  to  suggest  many 
things.  And  the  most  probable  theory  of  the  aim  of  this  con- 
versation which  I  was  forced  to  hear  was  so  mean  and  repul- 
sive and  depraved  that,  at  the  time,  it  delighted  me.  These 
grand  people,  then,  were  occasionally  in  straits  like  others. 
They  were  not  immaculate,  either.  They  had  their  mean- 
nesses— perhaps  more  absolutely  gross  and  mean  than  was 
possible  with  lesser  people  in  lesser  circumstances.  To  be 
looked  upon  as  a  beggar  was  bad  enough ;  but  there  were 
more  despicable  beings  in  the  world  than  beggars. 

When  I  got  out  of  the  dell,  and  looked  up  the  avenue,  I  saw 
that  one  of  the  two  men  who  had  been  speaking  was  the  gen- 
tleman who  had  been  riding  with  Miss  Hester  in  the  morning. 


.]/]'  UNCLE  JOB.  19 

Tlu-n    I   turned  my  back  upon  TJurnham  House,  and  hoped 
tliat  I  might  never se€  it  again. 

I  walked  over  lo  my  I"  nek-  Job's  farm — sonic  two  miles  off; 
and  there  I  spent  the  evening  and  the  whole  of  the  next  day. 
I'nelejob  was  my  father's  elder  brother — an  old  bachelor 
who  had,  by  rigid  parsimony,  worked  his  way  up  to  the  tenant- 
ing of  a  farm  of  over  two  hundred  acres.  Many  things  con- 
tributed to  make  him  a  sort  of  outcast  from  among  his  neigh- 
bors. To  begin  with,  he  went  about  in  a  frightfully  unshaven 
and  ragged  condition,  with  an  old,  smashed,  and  sun-tanned 
hat,  a  wisp  of  dirty  black  silk  tied  around  his  neck,  no  collar, 
an  old  and  shabby  coat,  and  a  pair  of  tight  and  dirty  corduroy 
breeches ;  while  his  unwashed  and  unshaven  face  was  orna- 
mented with  a  curiously  large  gray  moustache,  which  was 
ordinarily  besprinkled  with  snuff.  He  smoked  a  short  clay 
pipe,  and  purled  out  all  manner  of  socialist  and  revolutionary 
speeches  along  with  the  smoke.  He  never  went  to  church. 
He  had  been  the  friend  of  a  God-forgotten  Major  who  used 
to  dwell  in  a  lonely  house  near  Crutchett's  Coppice,  and  who 
was  supposed  to  be  a  monster  of  wickedness,  and  to  have 
murdered  his  wife.  It  was  found  at  his  death  that  the  Major 
had  provided  that  he  should  be  buried  in  the  neighboring 
wood,  instead  of  in  consecrated  ground  :  was  not  this  sufficient 
proof  that  the  devil  was  sure  of  his  prey  ?  My  Uncle  Job  was 
left  as  perpetual  guardian  of  the  Major's  house  ;  and  that  had 
now  fallen  pretty  much  into  ruin,  because,  as  everybody  knew 
it  was  haunted,  nobody  would  live  in  it.  The  experiment  was 
tried  once,  and  the  people  were  glad  to  get  away.  In  the  dark 
of  an  evening  the  noise  of  carriage-wheels  was  often  heard 
without — on  the  carriage-drive  and  at  the  hall-door :  when 
the  occupants  of  the  house  went  to  the  window  nothing  was 
visible.  Loud  laughter,  coming  from  the  neighboring  wood, 
used  to  startle  the  people  at  dead  of  night ;  when  they  opened 
a  door  suddenly,  a  sort  of  scuffle  was  heard,  and  sometimes 
the  faint  echo  of  a  laugh  a  minute  afterwards.  But  the  cli- 
max of  these  visitations  was  that  the  owner  of  the  house,  going 
home  one  night,  distinctly  saw  a  gray  dog-cart,  with  a  white 
horse,  standing  opposite  his  doorsteps.  He  went  forward :  as 
he  approached  it  faded  away,  and  he  walked  right  through  it. 
That  same  night  no  one  in  the  house  could  sleep  for  the 
shrieks  of  laughter  heard  all  around  the  place.  Next  morn- 
ing the  man  left,  with  all  his  family,  and  nobody  had  ventured 
to  sleep  in  the  house  since. 

Uncle  Job  was  very  unwilling  to  speak  of  these  matters. 
He  growled  in  his  bitter  way  at  the  superstition  and  folly  of 


20  KILMENY. 

the  people  around  ;  but  he  would  never  say  distinctly  what 
the  occupant  of  the  Major's  house  had  told  him  when  he  left. 

"  Darn  the  fools,"  he  used  to  say,  sitting  at  his  fire  of  a 
night,  with  the  small  black  pipe  in  his  mouth,  "  they'd  believe 
anything  if  the  pahrson  'ucl  only  tell  it  them.  But  the  pahr- 
sons  are  too  lazy  nowadays  to  invent  new  stories — they  stick 
to  the  hold  ones,  Ted.  They  keep  to  the  hold  stories,  and 
they've  shot  the  dower  agin  the  new  ones.  They  be  rare 
fond  o'  tellin'  ye  o'  the  plagues  o'  Egypt ;  but  what  I  says 
is,  Why  didn't  Moses  try  the^  Egyptians  wi'  a  plague  of  pahr- 
sons  ? — that's  what  I  say.  And  that's  a  rare  good  un'  too, 
about  the  sun  standin'  still.  Bah !  It's  my  opinion  that  if  the 
sun  stood  still,  it  was  because  it  was  so  darned  astonished  at 
Joshua's  cheek  in  askin'  it." 

I  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  my  Uncle  Job  having 
been  a  frightful  old  ruffian.  But  the  cool  way  in  which  he 
disposed  of  his  respectable  neighbors,  and  maintained  the 
independence  of  his  position,  was  fine  in  its  way.  I  walked 
over  his  farm  the  next  morning  with  him.  Job  had  his  small 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hat  drawn  over  his  forehead  to 
shelter  his  eyes  from  the  sunlight. 

"  The  pahrson  doan't  come  to  my  shop,"  he  said  ;  I  doan't 
go  to  his.  I  be  as  good  a  mahn  as  he — I  be.  No,  I  doan't 
say  as  goin'  to  church  is  a  bahd  thing,  but  there's  a  rare  lot 
o'  hypocrites  as  goes,  and  what  I  say  is  as  it's  better  not  to 
go  unless  you  can  hact  up  to  it — that's  what  I  saay.  They 
go  to  church,  and  talk  o'  the  blessin'  o'  bein'  poor,  and  try  to 
make  one  another  believe  as  they  believes  it ;  but  it's  my 
opinion  as  bein'  rich  isn't  so  much  of  a  curse  arter  all ;  and 
I  doan't  see  as  they  throw  any  o'  their  money  into  the  sea,  or 
much  of  it  into  the  poor-box,  for  the  matter  o'  that.  Yes, 
they  talk  o'  being  poor,  and  yet  they  want  to  farm  their  two 
thousand  and  their  three  thousand  acres,  and  keep  a  lot  o' 
families  starvin'  as  ain't  got  a  bit  o'  land  to  work  on.  It's 
one  mahn  eatin'  up  the  livin's  o'  eight  or  ten — that's  what  it 
is,  Mahster  Ted.  What  I  say  is,  every  mahn  should  ha'  an 
acre — a  mahn  an  acre — then  there  ud  be  no  starvation  or 
Unions." 

"Why  do  you  farm  two  hundred  acres  vourself,  Uncle 
Job  ?  "  said  I. 

"  What  'ud  be  the  use  o'  me  givin'  up  my  patch  o'  ground  ? 
what  could  a  mahn  get  wi'  his  spade  out  o'  an  acre  o'  this 
darned  stuff?  Yow,  lookee  there,  Mahster  Ted — look  at 
hat  divvelish  little  dell  as  I  ploughed  for  the  first  time  last 
spring." 


MY  rxcLi-:  jon.  21 

We  were  now  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  above  the  long  valley 
in  which  the  straggling  village  of  Missenden,  with  its  red 
brick  houses  and  its  pale  blue  smoke,  lay  under  the  early 
morning  sunshine.  All  right  in  front  of  us,  at  the  other  end 
of  the  valley,  rose  the  great  avenue  that  led  up  to  Burnham, 
and  the  House  stood  soft  and  shadowy  there  among  the  blue 
mist  of  the  trees,  with  a  flush  of  pale  yellow  across  its  front- 
age, caught  from  the  glow  of  the  east.  Job  paused  on  the 
edge  of  a  deep  hollow  at  one  end  of  this  field,  ancj  blinked 
at  the  sunshine,  and  puffed  his  pipe,  and  said — 

"  As  I  was  a  ploughin'  tlrear,  I  turned  over  cannon-bullets 
as  was  fired  all  across  that  valley  from  Burnham  House  by 
Holiver  Cromwell." 

I  asked  Job  how  he  knew  that  the  cannon-balls  had  be- 
longed to  Cromwell,  but  I  was  away  that  the  people  living  in 
this  district  attribute  all  historical  relics  to  the  time  of  the 
Civil  War.  There  seems  to  have  been  in  history  an  absolute 
blank,  so  far  as  the  Missenclen  valley  is  concerned,  between 
that  time  and  this  ;  the  people  speak  of  1640-50  as  of  yester- 
day, and  there  is  scarcely  a  stone  or  tree  in  the  parish  that 
has  not  somehow  been  mixed  up  in  the  great  struggle  between 
the  King  and  the  Commons. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  '*  said  my  uncle.  "  Who  ever  came  in- 
to this  part  of  the  world  to  fire  bullets  except  him  ?  Ah  ! 
those  wur  grand  times,  when  gentlemen  knew  what  wur  ex- 
pected of  gentlemen,  and  went  out  and  fought  for  the  poor 
people  as  was  being  taxed.  They're  talkinMn  the  newspa- 
pers, as  I  hear,  o'  spirit-rappin',  and  all  that  darned  stuff, 
and  its  my  opinion  that  the  pahrsons  are  only  humbuggin'  us 
about  the  joy  o'  goin'  to  'eaven,  if  we're  to  be  sent  to  attend 
on  a  lot  o'  darned  old  women,  and  play  accordions  for  them. 
But  what  I  say  is,  if  it  wur  possible  for  ghosts  to  come  back, 
what  d'ye  think,  Mahster  Ted,  'ucl  Ireton  and  Cromwell  and 
Blake  and  Burnham — to  say  nothing  o'  them  as  wur  on  the 
other  side — think  of  our  fine  gentlemen  now,  ruinin'  them- 
selves and  their  families  wi'  horse-racin',  fightin'  in  theatres, 
gamblin'  wi'  blasted  furreigners  in  Germany,  and  the  like  ? 
Look  at  the  House  there — isn't  it  as  fine  a  house  as  any  in 
England  ?  And  them  as  has  had  it — bah ! — and  him  as  is 
goin'  to  have  it — " 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Why,  I  bain't  a  prophet,  be  I,  when  I  say  as  I  know 
Mahster  Alfred  Burnham  ain't  got  a  darned  farthin',  and  that 
his  father  has  plenty  to  get  beaver  *  for,  let  alone  him  ;  and 
*  Beaver — food. 


22  ICILMENY. 

when  I  sees  him  ridin'  about  day  arter  day  with  Miss  Hester, 
and  looking  so  particlar  attentive,  I  don't  need  to  be  Eliza — 
Elijah  I  mean — to  say  as  there's  somethin'  hup.  Well,  she 
ain't  got  much  money  either,  as  I  can  hear  on  ;  but  he'll  get 
a  rare  good  sum  for  the  old  'Ouse.  I  dunnow  if  he  can  sell 
the  church,  too.  It  wur  a  pity  if  he  couldn't  make  some 
use  o'  them  vallyble  bits  o'  marble  as  have  all  the  Burnhams' 
names  on  'em." 

"  You  don't  think  he  would  sell  these,  do  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

But  at  this  moment  the  bell  of  Missenden  church — high 
up  on  the  hill  there,  above  the  gray  old  abbey  and  the  small 
river  and  the  broad  meadows — began  to  toll. 

"  Darn  them  bells  !  "  said  Uncle  Job,  turning  away  testily, 
"let's  go  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  and  get  out  of 
the  way  o'  their  noise.  I  hate  'em.  They  'mind  me  of  a 
funeral ;  and  they  say  to  me  as  the  people  who  go  to  church 
are  so  darned  respectable  and  solemn  and  proper ;  and  they 
tell  me  what  yur  respectable  people  think  of  me — and  that  is 
that  I  am  a  flamin'  old  cuss,  who  ought  to  go  and  bury  my- 
self, because  I  doan't  shine  my  boots,  and  go  and  snivvle  in 
a  church  pew,  and  promise  to  obey  all  the  ten  commahnd- 
ments,  and  ten  mower,  if  Providence  '11  only  make  me  better 
off  than  my  neighbors." 

I  don't  think  old  Job  Ives  was  a  very  profitable  companion, 
as  he  went  about  on  a  quiet  Sunday  morning,  down  in  this 
Buckinghamshire  vale,  railing  and  cursing  against  his  kind. 
However,  I  hated  Burnham,  and  I  remained  at  my  uncle's 
farm  all  day,  creeping  over  to  bid  good-bye  to  my  father  and 
mother  after  dusk,  when  no  one  from  Burnham  House  could 
see. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MY   FRIEND. 

I  RETURNED  to  London,  and  to  Weasel's  shop,  with  a  great 
purpose  in  my  heart.  I  was  determined  to  be  Correggio,  or 
Isaac  Newton,  or  Edmund  Kean — anybody  of  such  transcend- 
ent genius  as  should  make  the  world  pause  and  wonder. 
It  was  not  alone  the  small  world  of  Burnham  that  I  wished 
to  conquer,  but  that  greater  world  which  had  cast  me  down 
and  made  a  beggar  of  me.  I  should  be  even  with  it ;  and, 
if  I  spent  my  life  in  the  struggle,  would  in  the  end  force  it  to 


MY  Ml!  2} 

ngni/e  in  me  its  equal.  What  were  the  means  ?  An 
astounding  audacity,  assumed  for  the  purpose  ;  backed  by  a 
resolution  to  explore  all  the  various  branches  of  human 
knowledge.  There  was  nothing  I  did  not  attempt.  < 
was  my  first  effort ;  though  I  begin  to  perceive  now  that  life 
is  not  long  enough  to  let  a  man  learn  Greek.  French,  and 
a  little  German,  my  mother  had  taught  me  ;  and,  while  I  still 
coached  myself,  up  in  these  languages,  I  took  to  the  indis- 
criminate study  of  everything.  I  had  no  master  or  instructor 
or  guide.  I  gathered  up  pence,  and  bought  second-hand 
books  in  Holborn.  I  began  to  fancy  myself  learned  in  hy- 
draulics, and  could  turn  you  off  at  a  moment's  notice  the 
proper  angle  for  a  sluice-gate.  I  regarded  myself  as  profound 
in  chemistry ;  and  only  wanted  some  apparatus  to  increase 
considerably  the  list  of  non-metallic  elements.  I  studied 
astronomy ;  and  knew  that,  with  the  requisite  time  and  in- 
struments, I  should  have  discovered  Neptune.  I  studied 
botany  (theoretically,  alas !),  and  had  my  own  notions  about 
the  protoplasmic  movement  and  origin  of  life.  For  amuse- 
ment, I  drew,  and  dabbled  in  water-colors.  I  made  the  ab- 
surdest  efforts  to  excel  in  all  these  things,  that  I  might  wipe 
out,  some  clay  or  other,  the  cruel  stain  that  Hester  Burnham's 
silver  coin  had  left  upon  my  hand. 

I  pass  over  all  this  foolish  time,  and  arrive  at  a  period  when 
a  little  further  knowledge  had  cooled  my  hopes,  if  not  my  im- 
patience and  desire.  My  great  and  faithful  friend,  now  as 
then,  was  an  artist  to  whom  I  had  occasionally  to  carry  home 
picture-frames.  He  and  I  somehow  became  acquainted  :  he 
took  a  sort  of  fancy  to  me  ;  and  I  used  to  spend  all  my  brief 
snatches  of  leisure  in  his  studio  in  Granby  Street,  Hampstead 
Road.  His  name  was  Owen  Heatherleigh  ;  and  I  thought  at 
first  that  he  had  no  friends  or  relations.  I  discovered  after 
wards  that  he  had  plenty  of  both  ;  but  he  went  near  them 
rarely.  He  was  a  man  getting  on  towards  thirty,  with  rough 
unkempt  hair  and  beard,  a  broad,  honest,  powerful  face,  with 
a  gash  upon  one  cheek  which  he  had  received  while  studying 
in  Germany;  large,  brown  eyes,  a  good,  handsome  figure,  and 
slovenly  dress.  His  history,  as  I  heard  it  from  himself,  bit  by 
bit,  was  a  peculiar  and  sad  one.  He  was  of  a  very  good 
family :  his  father  was  a  squire  in  some  remote  district  in 
Westmoreland  ;  and,  some  ten  years  before  I  knew  him,  Owen 
had  the  misfortune  to  fall  in  love  with  a  young  girl,  the 
daughter  of  the  village  schoolmaster.  His  parents  would  hear 
nothing  of  the  match.  But  the  girl  loved  him ;  and  he  had 
justcoma  home  from  a  German  university,  full  of  ambition 


24  X1LMENY. 

and  independence  and  the  fine  feeling  of  youth.     He  left  his 
father's  house,  and  never  set  foot  in  it  again. 

"  I  used  to  go  and  see  her  every  morning,  from  my  lodgings," 
he  said  one  night  to  me,  as  he  sat  before  the  fire ;  "  and  they 
had  a  little  room  prepared  for  me,  in  which  I  used  to  work  at 
my  water-color  sketches,  that  were,  of  course,  to  make  a  fortune 
for  us  both.  You  know  what  I  am,  Ted  :  what  I  think  about 
many  things.  One  day  I  went  up  to  the  window  of  the  cot- 
tage :  it  was  open — summer-time,  you  know.  She  was  sing- 
ing— it  was  an  old,  poor  piano — but  my  little  girl  had  the  ten- 
derest  voice.  She  was  singing  some  religious  hymn  or  other ; 
and  I  caught  the  words,  *  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,  nearer  to 
Thee,'  uttered  with  such  a  pathetic  abandonment  that  I  dared 
not  to  enter  the  house.  I  felt  like  a  murderer  who  had  wan- 
dered near  a  village  church,  and  heard  the  people  singing.  I 
stood  outside  and  asked  myself  if  I  could  destroy  that  beau- 
tiful, simple  faith  of  hers.  If  she  were  to  marry  me,  would 
she  not  either  break  her  heart  over  my  condition,  or  could  I, 
on  the  other  hand,  crush  out  all  the  tenderest  and  holiest  as- 
pirations of  her  sweet  young  life,  and  leave  her  the  prey  of 
doubt  and  despair  ?  Still  she  sang,  and  you  might  have  im- 
agined that  the  angles  themself  were  listening  to  her.  I  hur- 
ried away  from  the  place  as  if  I  had  been  an  evil  spirit ; 
and — God  forgive  me !  but — I  fled  here  to  London.  I  think 
it  was  not  more  than  three  months  after  then  that  my  darling 
died  ;  and  when  I  went  down  there,  I  went  into  the  churchyard 
and  saw  the  flowers  on  her  grave.  She  died  without  ever 
knowing  how  wholly  and  perfectly  I  loved  her,  or  what  it  was 
that  had  caused  me  to  leave  her.  Some  half-hour  before  her 
death  she  asked  for  her  prayer-book — there  was  a  primrose  in 
it,  you  know  :  that  was  all.  ...  I  never  kissed  her." 

Such  was  his  story. 

At  another  time  he  told  me  why  he  was  so  lazy — he  who 
could  gain  reputation  and  money  by  every  half-hour  of  work 
he  chose  to  expend. 

"  I  came  up  to  London  again,  resolved  to  make  my  own  way, 
and  be  equal  with  the  people  who  had  cut  me  on  poor  Hettie's 
account — " 

"  Was  her  name  Hester  ?  "  I  asked,  with  a  sudden  accession 
of  interest. 

"  Yes.  But  I  found  it  was  no  use.  What  was  the  good  of 
working  yourself  to  death  to  amass  money,  when  you  found 
yourself  baffled  even  in  the  poor  competition  for  the  honor 
that  money  can  give  you  by  people  who  never  worked  a  stroke 
in  their  life  ?  They  had  all  the  chances  on  their  side  ;  I  had 


.]/)•  FRIEND.  25 

none.  Had  I  made  a  lot  of  money,  I  should  still  have  been 
1  >  >ked  on  in  society  as  a  poor  devil  of  an  artist — a  man  who 
had  to  earn  his  bread— whom  one  might  patronize— who^v  as 
your  servant  when  you  paid  him.  I  gave  up  the  fight,"  he 
continued,  recovering  his  gayety  of  tone,  "  I  take  my  ease. 
I  have  educated  myself  into  tastes  that  are  easily  gratified.  I 
like  beer  better  than  all  other  drinks.  I  prefer  a  pipe  to  any 
cigar  you  can  give  me.  I  work  as  little  as  I  can.  I  have  a 
fine  constitution,  and  am  content  to  enjoy  laziness.  I  lead, 
on  the  whole,  a  remarkably  jolly  life.  As  we  used  to  say  over 
in  Pleidelberg — 

" '  Ein  starkes  Bier,  ein  beizender  Tobak, 
Und  cine  Magd  im  Putz,  das  ist  nun  mein  Geschmack.'  " 

"  You  have  the  beer  and  the  tobacco ;  but  I  don't  see  the 
well-dressed  girl,"  I  remarked. 

"Not  when  Polly  Whistler  comes  to  look  us  up  ?  "  he  said. 

But  if  there  were  any  girl  in  the  world  whom  it  was  unlikely 
Owen  Heatherleigh  would  care  about,  it  was  Polly  Whistler 
— the  strapping,  frank,  good-natured  model,  who  had  a 
tongue  as  keen  as  her  wit,  and  a  heart  as  soft  as  her  big 
black  eyes.  Polly  was  a  very  respectable  girl,  be  it  under- 
stood. *  She  only  sat  to  two  or  three  artists  whom  she  knew, 
and  who  were  known  to  each  other ;  and  she  was  a  good 
deal  more  scrupulous  about  her  costume  than  many  ladies 
who  would  have  regarded  her  with  anger  and  disdain.  Some- 
times I  used  to  think  that  Polly  cared  more  about  Owen 
Heatherleigh  than  he  suspected,  or  than  she  chose  to  show ; 
but  then  again  the  suspicion  was  dispelled  by  the  open 
manner  in  which  she  "  chaffed  "  him  about  his  misogynist 
habits,  and  suggested  that  if  she  were  his  wife  she  would 
improve  both  his  chambers  and  himself. 

I  remember  walking  up  with  him  one  evening  to  his  studio  ; 
he  had  been  insisting  on  my  going  to  live  with  him,  help  him 
in  his  work,  and  share  the  profits.  The  mere  suggestion  of 
such  a  thing  set  my  head  spinning  with  wild  anticipations; 
ancl  I  eagerly  went  to  his  lodgings  to  talk  the  project  over. 

When  we  entered  the  large  room  we  found  the  lamp  already 
lit — throwing  a  dull  light  on  a  great,  gloomy  screen,  on  the 
various  sketches  and  pictures  hung  around  the  walls,  on  the 
littered  and  dirty  apartment,  and  on  a  row  of  dusty  and 
sepulchral  plaster  busts  set  along  a  high  shelf.  Polly  was 
seated  by  the  fire. 

"  Well,  Polly,  are  you  here  ?  "  he  said  unconcernedly,  tak- 
ing another  seat. 


25  KILMENY. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  turning  her  bright,  frank  face  to  us  with  a 
smile ;  "  my  old  woman  went  out  to  a  concert  with  one  of 
her  neighbors,  and  I  didn't  care  about  sitting  in  the  house 
alone." 

"  Quite  right  too.     Sitting  alone  begets  gloomy  fancies." 

"  That's  why  you  are  so  particularly  dull  at  times.  I  came 
down  here  thinking  to  put  your  place  a  bit  to  rights  for  you ; 
but  I  was  too  lazy,  or  tired.  I  was  to  tell  you  from  your  land- 
lady, though,  that  two  gentlemen,  who  would  not  leave  their 
names  called  to-day  and  will  be  back  again  tomorrow." 

"  Good  ! "  said  Heatherleigh  to  me.  "  I  swear  they  want 
to  offer  me  a  commission  to  paint  a  picture  for  the  Prince  of 
Wales." 

"  No,"  said  Polly,  with  her  black  eyes  twinkling  maliciously, 
"  I  believe  they  are  like  the  unbelieving  Jews — they  seek  a 
sign." 

"  You  are  very  wicked,  Polly,  do  you  know  ? "  he  said 
carelessly,  filling  a  pipe.  "You  will  never  be  tamed  and 
made  respectable  until  you  marry.  I  wish  I  were  the  happy 
man." 

"  I  wish  you  were,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  But  no.  You 
will  never  be  such  a  fool  as  to  offer  to  marry  me ;  and  I 
shouldn't  be  such  a  fool  as  to  accept  you,  if  you  did." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  never  get  fond  of  you,  Polly,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

By  this  time  the  smile  that  her  chaffing  had  brought  to  his 
face  had  quite  died  away,  and  he  was  staring  pensively  into 
the  fire.  When  he  spoke  it  was  as  if  he  were  speaking  to 
himself. 

"  Because  the  chances  are  you  would  die." 

"  Good  gracious  me  !  "  said  Polly. 

"  I  sometimes  have  a  notion,"  he  continued,  rather  absently, 
"that  the  unknown  presence  of  some  fatal  malady — some 
predisposition  to  death — may  lend  to  women's  faces  a  sort 
of  expression,  or  tenderness,  or  sadness,  that  is  peculiarly 
attractive  to  some  men.  The  man  does  not  know  why  he  is 
attracted  by  this  expression — he  only  knows  that  all  the 
women  he  has  loved  have  died  off  one  by  one,  while  they 
were  still  young.  It  is  only  a  theory,  you  know,  but  there 
are  some  men  who  are  unlucky  like  that." 

"  Well,"  said  Polly,  "  of  all  the  agreeable  topics  that  were 
ever  started,  this  is  about  the  most  lively.  It  all  comes  of 
your  sitting  indoors,  and  taking  no  interest  in  anything — not 
even  in  your  painting.  An  artist  has  no  business  with  phi- 
losophy— has  he,  Ted  ?  " 


MY  FRIEND.  27 

r  .she  called  me  Ted,  too. 

"Why,  no,"  I  said;  "but  Heatherleigh  dabbles  in  philoso- 
phy in  order  to  excuse  his  idleness." 

'•  Well,  Polly,  suppose  \ve  start  another  topic.  Suppose 
we  take  you  into  our  confidence,  and  consult  you  about  this 
young  gentleman's  prospects.  I  propose  to  assume  the  garb 
of  an  old  master,  and  have  him  for  a  pupil — a  student — a 
disciple.  In  time  he  will  be  able  to  paint  all  my  pictures  for 
me  ;  and  I  shall  have  all  the  money,  while  he  reaps  all  the 
praise.  I  propose  taking  a  junior  partner  into  the  busi- 
ness ;  he  is  to  do  the  work,  while  I  get  the  profits.  What  do 
you  think  of  it,  Polly  ?  Did  I  ever  show  you  the  things  he 
has  clone  ?  They're  not  very  good,  you  know,  my  lad  ;  they're 
chiefly  remarkable  for  cheek.  But  in  a  short  time,  you 
would,  I  think,  be  able  to  paint  a  good  many  bits  of  my  in- 
teriors for  me,  and  so  forth.  What  do  you  say,  Ted?" 

What  could  I  say  ?  Here  were  two  of  the  very  kindest 
beings  I  have  ever  met  in  this  world  laying  their  heads  to- 
gether to  help  me ;  and  the  astonishment  and  gratitude  with 
which  such  a  circumstance  filled  me  almost  blinded  me  to 
the  obvious  fact  that  Heatherleigh  was  trying  to  disguise  the 
nature  of  his  offer.  To  be  plain,  he,  too,  was  conferring  char- 
ity upon  me.  I  knew  that  for  a  long  time  I  could  not  be  of 
the  slightest  use  to  him.  Besides,  he  did  not  want  to  make 
money  either  by  my  efforts  or  his  own.  He  worked  by  fits 
and  starts — and  after  he  had  got  a  check  from  a  dealer,  he 
relapsed  into  his  dawdling  ways  and  indolent,  abstemious 
luxury.  He  had  an  amazing  gift  or  trick  of  manipulation — 
painting  cost  him  neither  study  nor  pains.  He  could  turn  off, 
when  pressed  for  money,  a  picture  in  an  inconceivably  short 
space  of  time  ;  and,  if  it  was  not  a  striking  or  original  work, 
it  was  still  out  of  the  common  run  of  picture-dealers'  pict- 
ures. There  was  not  a  particle  or  trace  of  genius  in  his  work 
— no  bold  conception  or  lofty  aim,  or  sharp  and  luminous  in- 
terpretation ;  but  there  was  an  easy  and  bright  cleverness 
which  had  a  certain  individualism  of  its  own,  and  which  pro- 
cured a  too  ready  market  for  all  that  he  produced.  I  think 
he  was  quite  conscious  of  all  this,  and  that  the  knowledge 
helped  to  confirm  him  in  his  indolent  ways.  He  was  not 
even  gifted  with  the  vague  hope  that  he  might  become  a  great 
painter.  He  painted  when  his  funds  became  low,  or  when 
he  took  a  sudden  fancy  to  dress  himself  remarkably  well  and 
give  a  few  companions  a  dinner  at  Richmond.  He  was  a 
handsome  man,  as  I  have  said  ;  and,  when  he  choi:e,  he  could 
throw  off  the  roughness  of  his  present  mode  of  life,  and  aston- 


2S  KILMENY. 

ish  one  with  the  extreme  elegance  and  finish  of  his  toilet  and 
general  appearance.  His  hands  were  fine  and  delicate ;  he 
had  small  feet,  and  a  certain  air  of  refinement  and  ease  which 
became  his  intelligent  face  and  well-set  neck.  When  he 
thus  dressed  himself,  he  completed  the  metamorphosis  by  be- 
coming absurdly  critical  in  all  such  matters  as  wines,  cigars, 
dishes,  dress,  and  manners.  He  was  only  acting  a  part,  and 
imagining  what  he  might  have  been  had  he  not  quarrelled 
with  his  family  ;  and  yet  he  acted  the  part  so  naturally  that 
his  companions,  chiefly  artists,  used  to  be  greatly  impressed 
by  such  evidences  of  culture  and  high-breeding.  Next  day 
you  would  find  him  laughing  at  his  own  folly — dressed  in  an 
old  velveteen  jacket,  with  his  hair  uncombed,  his  waistcoat 
open  and  showing  a  shirt  liberally  stained  with  megilp  and 
color,  his  delicate  'fingers  sticky  and  dirty  with  varnishes  and 
oils,  and  on  the  table  beside  his  easel  a  short  clay  pipe  and 
a  battered  pewter  pot  filled  with  half-and-half. 

"  I  say  that  you  are  too  kind,"  I  replied — "  that  I  should 
not  be  worth  my  keep  for  a  very  long  time,  if  ever." 

"  You  don't  understand,  Master  Ted,"  said  he  ;  "  I  am  en- 
tering upon  a  business  speculation.  I  am  buying  up  rough 
land,  out  of  which  I  mean  to  get  great  harvests  yet.  I  mean 
to  make  an  artist  of  you,  Ted." 

"  Make  an  artist  of  yourself ! "  said  Polly. 

"  I  mean  to  buy  you  out  of  the  hands  of  that  charming  per- 
son, Weavle.  I  shall  hold  you  as  my  slave  and  bondman ; 
and  then,  when  I  am  an  old  man,  grown  white  and  lean  and 
shaky,  you  shall  work  for  me  and  pay  my  little  bills,  and  I 
shall  bless  you.  You  are  not  bound  by  any  engagement  to 
Weavle  ? " 

"No." 

"  Nor  by  any  promise  to  your  parents  ?  " 

"No." 

"  What  do  you  say,  then  ?  " 

"  I  say  that  if  you  give  me  this  chance  I  will  do  my  very 
best  in  whatever  way  you  want ;  and  whether  I  succeed  or 
not,  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness  to  me — about  the 
greatest  I  have  ever  received." 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  Polly,  with  a  sort  of  sob — indeed,  nothing 
could  equal  this  kind  creature's  intense  s)Tmpathy  with  every- 
body and  everything  around  her.  "  But  do  you  know,  Ted, 
what  you  have  to  go  through  before  you  become  an  artist  ?  " 

I  professed  ignorance ;  and  inwardly  hoped  that  Polly  did 
not  mean  that  I  must  grace  the  occasion  by  kissing  her. 

"  There  never  yet,"  said  she,  "  was  an  artist,  or  an  author, 


MY  1'RIEXD.  29 

or  a  poet,  or  anybody  who  had  to  live  by  his  wits,  that  was  of 
any  good  until  he  had  met  with  a  terrible  disappointment  in 
You  must  have  your  heart  half-broken,  Ted,  before 
you  can  do  anything.  You  know,  they  say  that  a  reaper 
never  does  any  good  until  he  has  cut  himself  with  the  sickle  ; 
so  an  artist  must  get  wounded  and  hurt  in  the  same  way  be- 
fore he  discovers  the  way  to  touch  the  people.  We  must 
get  your  heart  broken,  Ted." 

"Isn't  it  a  lucky  thing  that  there  are  so  many  women," 
said  Heatherleigh,  "  whom  Providence  seems  to  have  ap- 
pointed for  the  purpose.  I  can  easily  supply  him  with  any 
number  of  young  persons  whose  profession  is  to  break  your 
heart  with  the  most  charming  air  in  the  world.  Let's  see  :  I 
wonder  whose  house  I  ought  to  take  him  to — to  get  him 
broken  in,  as  it  were.  The  air  of  Lew  ison's  drawing-room — 
I  call  his  place  the  ^Esthetic  Grotto — is  too  fine  and  clear  for 
a  vigorous,  strong  flirtation  ;  and  yet  there  are  some  promis- 
ing young  executioners  to  be  met  with  there.  You  remem- 
ber what  Alfred  de  Musset  says  : 

'  J'aime  encore  mieux  notre  torture, 
Que  votrc  metier  de  bourreau.' 

There  is  Bonnie  Lesley,  as  they  call  her,  for  example — " 

"  What  ?  "  I  said,  "  the  girl  whose  face  you  are  constantly 
sketching  ?  " 

"  Even  so,  young  sir." 

"  If  she  is  like  your  copies  of  her,  she  must  be  something 
better  than  what  you  say." 

"  Oh,  she  is  pretty  enough,  and  sweet  enough,  doubtless," 
said  he.  "  At  least,  I  presume  she  is  good-looking.  In  my 
young  days,  you  could  be  sure  of  a  woman's  being  beautiful, 
because  you  had  a  chance  of  seeing  her  face." 

"  I  am  certain,"  said  Polly,  "  you  have  painted  her  face 
oftener  than  she  has  done.  I  saw  her  once  in  Regent's  Park 
— recognized  her  directly.  I  should  fall  in  love  with  her  if  I 
were  a  man." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  and,  if  you  were  a  man, 
you  would  probably  regret  it.  However,  I  am  glad  to  hear 
you  say  a  kind  word  for  her,  Polly.  You  women  are  so  very 
distrustful  of  each  other." 

"  I  suppose  it's  because  we  know  ourselves  so  well,"  said 
Polly,  with  a  sigh. 

Heatherleigh  now  rang  the  bell,  and  begged  his  landlady 
to  send  up  supper.  It  was  soon  on  the  table — cold  mutton, 


30  KILMENY. 

pickled  onions,  water-cresses,  cheese,  and  half-and-half,  with 
a  small  bottle  of  stout  for  Polly's  exclusive  use. 

Polly  Whistler  and  I  frequently  supped  there ;  and  at 
these  modest  entertainments  the  girl  really  made  a  most 
charming  companion.  She  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
good  spirits  ;  and  she  had  a  playful,  ingenious  wit  that  I  have 
never  seen  approached  by  any  other  woman.  Of  course,  the 
brilliant  and  sharp  and  odd  things  she  was  constantly  uttering 
lost  none  of  their  effect  by  the  freedom  of  her  manners,  or  by 
a  half-dramatic  trick  she  had  of  giving  them  point  and  ex- 
pression ;  and  yet  there  was  never  a  trace  of  rudeness  or  bad 
taste  in  anything  she  said  or  did.  Heatherleigh  used  to  lie 
back  in  his  big  wooden  chair,  and  listen  with  a  sort  of  lazy 
enjoyment  and  paternal  forbearance  to  her  rapid  talk,  her 
bright  laughter,  and  her  shrewd  and  humourous  hits.  He,  too, 
in  his  indolent  fashion,  would  often  meet  her  half-way  in  these 
sarcastic  comments  on  men,  women,  and  the  accidents  of  life. 
She  used  to  laugh  and  talk  and  jibe  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
amusing  her  companions  and  herself ;  but  you  could  see  that 
in  his  lazy  epigrams  upon  human  nature  there  was  just  a 
touch  of  bitterness — as  if,  unconsciously  to  himself,  he  was 
exhibiting  marks  of  that  old  and  useless  struggle  against  the 
hard,  resisting  mass  of  the  world.  There  was  a  half-concealed 
pungency  about  his  wit  that  made  you  think  he  was  scarcely 
himself  aware  of  its  acrid  flavor ;  and  to  one  who  was  ac- 
customed to  his  ways,  his  sayings  had  the  unusual  merit  of 
appearing  to  be  dragged  from  him.  I  never  saw  him  talk  for 
effect — even  in  trying  to  amuse  a  girl,  when  a  man  is  scarcely 
expected  to  be  accurate,  honest,  or  sensible.  He  and  Polly 
used  to  relish  these  quiet  little  meetings  keenly ;  and  I — why 
I  thought  there  never  \vere  in  the  world  two  people  who  en- 
joyed themselves  so  thoroughly  and  in  so  innocent  a  fashion, 
who  were  so  good-natured  and  disinterested  and  frank  and 
kind  to  everybody,  high  and  low,  whom  they  met.  But  I 
knew  they  were  exceptions  ;  for  the  average  of  human  nature 
was  as  yet  represented  to  me  by  Weavle. 

Then  we  went  to  see  Polly  home.  She  lived  just  round 
the  corner,  in  Albany  Street,  behind  Regent's  Park ;  and 
when  she  bade  us  good-bye,  she  said  she  should  some  day  go 
to  see  my  picture  in  the  Academy.  The  words  thrilled 
through  me,  and  for  a  moment  I  could  see  nothing  of 
the  dark  houses  and  the  pavement,  and  of  my  two  com- 
panions— But  instead  a  great  room  filled  with  fashionable 
folks  in  splendid  attire,  all  come  to  look  at  the  rows  of  bril- 
liant pictures.  If  I  could  but  get  a  modest  corner  there  !  I 


MY  FRIL  v 

said  lo  myself,  with  a  strange  throb — and  if,  by  chance,  my 
obscure  and  little  eit'ort  were  in  be  glanced  at,  even  for  a 
moment,  by — 

"  Thank  you,  Polly,"  said  I,  with  the  old  consciousness  fall- 
ing down  on  me  again  ;  "  my  work  has  already  been  seen  on 
the  Academy  walls,  and  I  suppose  it  will  be  again — on  the 
frames." 

So  we  turned  away,  Heatherleigh  and  I,  and  walked  care- 
lessly onward.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  still  and  mild,  with 
a  full  moon  shining  on  the  pale  fronts  of  the  tall  houses  that 
lie  along  the  north  side  of  Regent's  Park,  glittering  here  and 
there  on  the  glossy  leaves  of  the  young  birches.  There  was 
almost  no  one  to  be  seen  along  the  white  pavements  ;  but  oc- 
casionally we  passed  a  house  the  windows  of  which  were  lit 
up,  gleaming  warm  and  red  into  the  pale  gray  light  outside. 
We  walked  around  Regent's  Park  and  Primrose  Hill,  and 
along  the  Finchley  Road  towards  the  neighborhood  of  Hamp- 
stead  ;  Heatherleigh  talking  of  many  things — of  the  project  he 
had  proposed  to  me,  of  Polly  Whistler,  and,  latterly,  of  that 
old  dead  love  of  his,  and  of  all  the  beautiful  hopes  and  aspi- 
rations that  lay  buried  in  her  grave.  He  seldom  talked  of 
her ;  when  he  did,  there  was  something  to  me  almost  terrible 
in  witnessing  the  emotion  of  this  strong  man — of  the  piteous 
way  in  which  he  used  to  look  back  and  wonder  how  the  world 
could  have  compassed  this  cruel  and  irremediable  thing  that 
was  to  haunt  the  rest  of  his  life  with  its  shadow.  And  yet 
there  was  a  sweetness  in  the  memory  of  it,  I  think,  as  I  think 
there  is  in  the  memory  of  all  our  great  sorrows — so  long  as 
these  have  not  been  the  result  of  our  own  wilfulness  or 
folly. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  Do  you 
know  I  regard  Polly  Whistler  as  the  most  heroic  little  woman 
I  know  ?  How  Polly  would  laugh  if  you  were  to  tell  her  she 
was  a  heroine.  Did  you  hear,  just  as  we  walked  off,  an  angry 
screech  of  a  woman's  voice  from  inside  the  house  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  note  of  kindly  welcome  was  sounded  by  her  mother, 
who,  1  suppose,  has  returned  from  her  concert  in  a  state  of  in- 
toxication. Fred  Ward  told  me  this  morning  of  the  fright- 
ful persecution  the  girl  suffers  at  the  hands  of  this  woman,  who 
spends  all  her  earnings,  and  threatens  her  if  she  does  not 
bring  home  more  money.  When  she  is  in  one  of  her  drunken 
fits,  she  follows  the  girl  through  the  streets,  and  goes  up  to  the 
studios  after  her,  and  insists  upon  getting  money." 

"  Fred  Ward,"  said  I,  "  must  have  been  putting  more  imagin- 


3*  KILMENY. 

ation  into  his  story  than  he  ever  did  into  one  of  his  pictures. 
How  is  it  Polly  never  hinted  anything  of  the  kind,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  has  always  spoken  very  generously  and  nicely  about 
her  *  old  woman  ? '  How  is  it  that  the  old  woman  never  pes- 
tered you  for  money  ?  " 

"  There's  the  odd  thing,"  said  he.  "  You  know  Polly  only 
sits  to  three  or  four  fellows,  all  of  whom  I  know.  Every  one 
of  them,  it  seems,  is  familiarly  acquainted  with  the  mother, 
except  myself ;  and  Ward  told  me  that  Polly  had  made  very 
great  sacrifices  that  I  might  not  know,  and  begged  them  all 
not  to  tell  me.  Indeed,  the  old  woman,  it  seems,  holds  up  a 
visitation  to  my  studio  as  the  highest  threat  she  can  use,  and 
Polly  will  do  anything  rather  than  that  I  should  learn  what 
sort  of  a  mother  she  has  got.  Ward  says  it  is  time  that  this 
terrorism  should  cease,  and  that  I  ought  to  explain  to  Mother 
Whistler  that  she  had  better  drop  it.  He  says,  too,  that  the 
girl's  conduct  toward  her  mother  is  simply  admirable — in  kind- 
ness and  forbearance  and  good-nature.  But  now  I  can  look 
back  and  explain  a  good  many  things  about  Polly  that  used 
to  puzzle  me  sometimes." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  if  I  were  you,  I  should  not  tell  her  that  I 
knew.  The  girl  doesn't  want  you  to  think  ill  of  her  mother  ; 
give  her  her  own  way." 

"  I'll  consider  about  it,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  if  I  could  get  a 
private  word  with  Mrs.  Whistler,  at  some  sober  moment,  I 
should  like  to  tell  her  what  might  be  the  result  of  her  conduct 
upon  a  girl  less  determined  in  character  than  poor  Polly." 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  we  drew  near  Primrose  Hill 
again.  The  streets  were  now  quite  deserted,  and  there  was 
scarcely  a  light  to  be  seen  in  any  of  the  windows  of  the  tall, 
pale  houses.  As  we  came  around  by  Albert  Road,  however, 
we  observed  one  house  in  which  the  lower  rooms  were  yet  lit 
up.  Heatherleigh  crossed  over,  and  we  paused  in  front  of  the 
railings. 

"  That  is  the  ^Esthetic  Grotto,"  he  whispered  ;  "  I  wonder 
who  are  inside  at  present  ?  " 

The  windows  were  open  and  the  Venetian  blinds  were 
down ;  the  latter,  from  their  sloping  position,  showing  only 
gleaming  lines  of  the  roof  and  chandeliers  inside.  Presently 
a  girl's  voice  was  heard — a  pure  and  high  soprano,  that  rose 
clearly  and  fully  above  the  delicate  rippling  accompaniment 
of  the  piano.  In  the  stillness  of  the  night  we  heard  every 
tone  and  modulation  of  the  exquisite  voice,  and  I,  for  one, 
stood  entranced  there,  drinking  in  the  beautiful,  touching 
melody. 


/.V  AY-:  (/'A.  vr.V  /Y/AYi'.  33 

"I  think  it  is  Schubert's,"  said  Heatherleigh  ;  "  the  Lewi- 
sons  arc  mad  about  Schubert." 

At  length  the  song  was  finished,  and  the  blank  stillness 
that  followed  struck  painfully  on  the  ear. 

"They  are  unusually  late  to-night,"  said  Heatherleigh. 
"  They  keep  open  house  every  evening,  for  everybody  who 
has  musical  or  literary  or  artistic  tastes.  The  place  is  a  per- 
fect den  of  big  and  small  celebrities,  and  sometimes  they 
have  the  most  brilliant  little  gatherings." 

After  a  moment,  he  said,  with  a  smile — 

"  Do  you  know  who  was  singing  that  German  song,  just 
now?"  ' 

"  How  should  I  ?  " 

"  It  was  Bonnie  Lesley,  as  they  call  her." 


CHAPTER  V. 
IN  REGENT'S  PARK. 

O.v  the  first  morning  that  I  walked  up  Tottenham  Court 
Road  towards  Heatherleigh's  studio,  with  the  old  shadow  of 
Weavle  removed  from  over  me,  I  felt  that  the  world  had 
grown  immeasurably  wider.  It  was  the  morning  of  the  first 
of  May,  and  all  the  sweet  influences  of  the  season  were  added 
to  this  one  supreme  sensation  of  breadth  and  life,  and  a  joy- 
ous and  active  future.  I  imagined  myself  then  going  to  con- 
quer the  world.  I  felt  the  delight  of  anticipation  tingling 
through  me.  I  straightened  up  my  shoulders  and  sniffed  the 
fresh  morning  air,  which  was  sweet  and  grateful  even  in 
this  dingy  district.  I  clenched  my  fists,  brought  them  up  to 
my  chest,  and  shot  them  out  again  as  if  I  were  knocking 
down  a  Weavle  on  each  side.  To  my  horror  and  surprise,  I 
found  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  in  my  blind  exultation 
dealt  a  severe  blow  to  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  had  been 
crossing  the  street,  and  was  just  about  to  step  on  the  pave- 
ment. 

"  You  great,  lumbering  idiot !  "  he  said. 

1  turned  and  made  the  most  ample  and  profuse  apologies, 
which  he  cut  short  with — 

"  Go  to  the—" 

I  did  not  hear  him  complete  the  sentence  as  he  angrily 
turned  away,  but  I  can  imagine  how  it  ended.  Yet  I  would 
have  braved  any  amount  of  anger  to  hear  those  words  "great, 


34 


KILMENY. 


lumbering,"  applied  to  me.  Was  it,  then,  that  I  might  not 
be  so  deficient  in  bodily  presence  as  I  had  imagined  ?  I  re- 
garded myself  in  the  window  of  a  shoe-shop.  I  did  not  cut  a 
distinguished  figure — that  was  clear.  I  was  obviously  taller 
than  the  old  gentleman  whom  I  had  hurt  in  a  sensitive  place, 
but  then  he  was  of  the  barrel  order  of  human  architecture. 
For  the  rest,  I  had  not  much  in  my  appearance  on  which  to 
pride  myself.  There  was  a  certain  lean  and  hungry  look  on 
my  pale  face,  which  the  staring  dark  eyes  and  rather  beak- 
like  nose  did  not  diminish.  By  accident,  my  hair  had  been 
allowed  to  grow  long,  and,  as  I  looked  at  myself  in  this  ex- 
temporized mirror,  I  could  compare  myself  to  nothing  so 
much  as  a  hungry  Italian  refugee,  who  had  lost  some  notion 
or  idea  when  he  was  young,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  in 
wistfully  trying  to  recall  it.  Pictured  against  the  rows  of 
shining  boots,  my  face  must  have  seemed  that  of  one  unsat- 
isfied, meditative,  melancholy,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  older- 
looking  than  I  ought  to  have  been  at  my  years. 

"Good-morrow  to  the  youthful  Appefles,"  said  Heather- 
leigh,  when  I  entered.  "  You  have  come  betimes.  I  pre- 
sume you  mean  to  set  to  work  immediately." 

He  was  lying  in  his  big  easy-chair,  his  leg  over  the  one  arm 
of  it,  a  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth,  a  volume  of  Bain  in  his  hand, 
the  breakfast  things  still  on  the  table.  He  certainly  had  not 
washed,  and  you  could  only  say  by  way  of  courtesy  that  he 
had  dressed.  ' 

"  If  you  please,"  I  said. 

I  felt  very  nervous  all  the  same,  and  looked  timidly  around 
to  see  if  there  was  anything  I  fancied  I  might  be  able  to  do 
for  him.  I  glanced  at  the  picture  which  was  on  his  principal 
easel.  It  was  a  remarkably  clever  study  of  a  lady  of  Charles 
II. 's  time,  seated  in  a  high-backed  chair,  with  a  couple  of 
spaniels  playing  at  her  feet.  There  was  absolutely  no  idea 
or  aim  whatever  in  the  picture  ;  he  had  merely  taken  fhis 
pretty  and  cleverly  painted  face,  and  surrounded  it  with  a  few 
appropriate  accessories. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean  by  it,"  I  answered,  frankly. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  then.  I  mean  money  by  it.  It  is  a 
sketch  I  made  for  the  market  some  eight  months  ago.  I  had 
the  good  sense  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  and  turned  its  face  to 
the  wall.  I  took  it  down  this  morning,  and  mean  to  finish  it 
— why  ?  do  you  think  ?  " 

Of  course,  I  had  no  idea. 

"  Because  Professor  Bain  has  just  been  pointing  out  to  me 


/.v  AV-;oVf.\'7".v  r.-iA-A'.  35 

that  I  have  a  natural  genius  for  being  happy.  In  the  country, 
1  have  the  keen  pleasure  of  Self-conservation — the  storing  up 
of  physical  health  and  nervous  energy ;  in  the  town,  I  have 
the  indolent  pleasure  of  Stimulation — drawing  upon  that 
store  of  superfluous  vitality.  If  Stimulation  were  out  of  the 
question,  and  all  our  pleasures  only  increased  our  health ! 
As  it  is,  however,  it  seems  to  me,  my  Pupil,  that  I  have  not 
been  balancing  the  two — that  I  must  have  more  of  Self-con- 
servation ;  and  as  I  propose,  consequently,  to  go  into  the 
country,  I  took  down  that  picture  to  find  the  means." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad,  Master,  if  you  will  instruct  me  in 
Philosophy  as  well  as  in  Art,"  I  said. 

"  That  notion  has  just  occurred  to  me.  But  then,  you  see, 
the  old  teachers  of  philosophy  were  accustomed  to  talk  to 
their  disciples  under  the  trees  and  in  the  leafy  alleys  of 
Academus  ;  and,  accordingly,  the  best  thing  I  think  we  can 
do  this  fine  morning  is  to  take  a  walk  in  Regent's  Park. 
What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  It  is  for  you  to  decide,  of  course,"  I  answered  ;  but  the 
notion  of  thus  being  able  to  walk  out  anywhere  in  the  hours 
which  ought  to  be  devoted  to  work  was  thoroughly  bewilder- 
ing to  me.  Nor  could  I  throw  off  an  impression  that  there 
was  something  wrong  in  the  proposal ;  and  that,  if  we  did  go 
out,  we  should  be  "  caught." 

"  I  must  dress,"  he  said,  getting  up  out  of  the  chair ;  "  and, 
meanwhile,  I  will  put  you  on  your  trial.  You  see  I  have 
sketched  in  behind  the  lady  that  screen  over  there.  If  you 
like,  you  can  try  your  hand  at  finishing  it — keeping  it  very 
quiet.  Use  my  palette  until  I  get  you  one  for  yourself. 
There,  sit  you  down." 

He  left,  and  I  sat  down  before  the  picture  with  fear  and 
trembling.  My  hand  shook  so  that  I  could  scarce  squeeze 
the  color  out  of  the  tubes  ;  and  my  eyes  seemed  to  throb  and 
burn.  The  screen  was  an  old,  tattered  thing,  which  had  at 
one  time  been  covered  with  colored  maps.  Now  all  these 
had  subsided,  until  the  surface  was  a  mass  of  cool  grays,  with 
here  and  there  just  a  touch  of  warmer  tint,  where  Africa  or 
England  was  vaguely  visible.  It  was  an  admirable  bit  of 
background  ;  but  how  was  I  to  attempt  it  ? 

I  wonder  if  Heatherleigh  purposely  delayed  his  return.  At 
first,  it  seemed  to  me  that  every  moment  the  door  leading  into 
his  small  bedroom  would  open,  and  that  he  would  walk  over 
to  the  picture  to  see  that  I  had  been  too  nervous  to  begin  it 
at  all.  Then  the  brush  began  to  work  a  little  better  :  and 
although  my  eyes  still  throbbed  and  burned  so  that  at  times 


36  KILMEiVY. 

the  whole  screen  and  room  faded  away  and  left  only  a  spot- 
ted mist  there,  I  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  the  screen  in  the 
picture  was  beginning  to  look  somewhat  like  the  actual  screen 
beyond. 

This  was  not  by  any  means  the  first  time  I  had  attempted 
painting  in  oil.  Many  a  chance  effort  I  had  made  to  wrestle 
with  the  stronger  medium;  although  I  always  returned  to 
water-color  as  that  which  I  could  use  most  easily.  It  is  well 
known  that  tyros  paint  more  presentably  in  oil  than  in  water 
— their  experience  of  both  being  equal ;  but  I  had  dabbled 
in  water-color  for  two  or  three  years,  while  my  acquaintance 
with  oil  was  exceedingly  limited.  From  the  moment,  how- 
ever, in  which  I  had  accepted  Heatherleigh's  offer,  I  had  in- 
dustriously experimented  with  a  few  of  the  cheapest  tubes 
and  some  bits  of  board,  until  I  could  fairly  copy  the  different 
colors  and  hues  of  the  objects  around  me.  Yet  to  have  my 
clumsy  manipulation  placed  exactly  side  by  side  with  Heath- 
erleigh's dexterous  and  clean  touch  was  a  cruel  test. 

At  length  the  door  opened,  and  he  walked  across  the  room. 
The  brush  fell  from  my  hand,  and  I  had  nearly  dropped 
myself,  for  my  head  was  swimming  with  the  superlative  con- 
centration of  the  last  half-hour.  Very  probably,  too,  my  face 
was  a  trifle  paler  than  usual,  for  I  noticed  that  he  regarded 
me  curiously  before  he  looked  at  the  picture  at  all,  and  that 
he  kindly  placed  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  as  he  proceeded 
to  scan  the  wild  effort  I  had  made. 

I  felt  myself  grow  hot  and  cold  alternately  in  that  moment 
of  dire  suspense ;  and  when  he  said,  with  a  tone  of  surprise, 
"  By  Jove  ! "  it  was  as  if  a  blow  of  some  sort  had  struck  me. 
I  dared  scarcely  say  to  myself  what  that  exclamation  might 
mean. 

Then  he  said,  quietly  and  cheerfully — 

"  Whatever  made  you  try  to  paint  in  all  that  accurately  in 
five  minutes  ?  Of  course,  it  won't  do,  you  know  ;  but  the  effort 
you  have  made,  and  the  result  you  have  gained,  in  a  few  min- 
utes, is  astounding." 

I  rose  up,  keeping  firm  hold — I  know  not  why — of  the 
brushes  and  the  palette. 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  said — "  do  you  consider — " 

Then  I  felt  that  I  was  reeling,  and  knew  vaguely  that  he  put 
out  his  arm  quickly  to  catch  me.  After  that  a  blank.  When 
I  came  to,  I  found  that  I  had  fallen  backward,  striking  my 
head  against  the  table.  Heatherleigh  led  me  into  his  bed- 
room, and  made  me  bathe  my  head  in  cold  water.  After  a 
few  minutes  I  was  all  right. 


/.V  REGENTS  /\-1A'A'.  37 

me,"  said  he,  with  a  quiet  smile  on  his  face,  "  take  my 
r.rni,  and  let's  go  for  a  walk  in  Regent's  Park." 

\Ye  went  out  into  the  cool,  fresh  air  ;  and  I  was  proud  of  the 
exhaustion  I  felt,  for  I  knew  it  had  been  incurred  in  that  one 
terrible  effort  to  cut  forever  the  chain  that  bound  me  to  Weavle 
and  the  old  hard  times.  But  was  it  of  any  avail  ?  He  had 
never  answered  my  question ;  and  I  dared  not  to  ask  it  again, 
lest  he  might  tell  me,  in  tone  if  not  in  words,  that  I  could  never 
be  useful  to  him — that  the  dreams  I  had  already  begun  to 
dream  were  visionary,  impossible,  hopeless. 

After  a  few  minutes'  silence  he  said  to  me,  gravely  and 
kindly— 

"  If  you  don't  find  some  means  of  curbing  that  impulsive 
and  impetuous  will  of  yours,  I  fear  your  life  will  be  neither  a 
long  one  nor  a  happy  one.  If  you  suffer  your  temperament 
to  lead  you  into  the  habit  of  desiring  successive  things  so 
earnestly  that  you  lose  all  consciousness  and  judgment  in  striv- 
ing for  them,  you  will  find  yourself  subjected  in  life  to  a  series 
of  the  bitterest  disappointments,  and  these  revulsions  might 
have  a  disastrous  effect  on  one  so  sensitive  as  you  are.  There 
is  nothing  of  an  intensely  dramatic  or  tragic  kind  that  I  can 
imagine  as  being  unlikely  to  fall  in  your  way.  You  are  the 
sort  of  man,  for  example,  who,  if  I  mistake  not,  would  coolly 
and  deliberately  blow  out  your  brains  if  some  woman  you  had 
set  your  heart  on  proved  unfaithful  to  you." 

"You  imagine  all  that,"  I  said,  "  because  I  tried  hard  to 
paint  the  screen.  But  I  didn't  know  that  I  had  been  trying 
hard  until  it  was  all  over." 

"  Precisely,"  he  said  ;  "  you  entirely  abandon  yourself  to  a 
passing  mood  or  fancy.  I  have  remarked  it  several  times. 
Now  what  would  be  the  result  if  you  happened  to  set  before 
you  one  supreme  aim — if  you  staked  all  your  chances  upon 
one  throw  ? " 

"  In  what  direction  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  In  any.  You  say  to  yourself,  I  will  never  cease  striving 
until  I  have  painted  a  Madonna  to  eclipse  Raphaefs,  or  /  will 
win  such  a  woman,  or  die.  You  are  as  likely  as  not,  in  either 
case,  to  aim  at  something  quite  impossible.  The  result  ? — 
when  you  find  yourself  cheated  in  your  notions  of  your  own 
power,  when  you  find  the  chief  object  of  your  life  removed  from 
you,  what  is  more  likely  than  that  you  will  suddenly  put  an  end 
to  a  wretched  failure — by  a  pennyworth  of  poison." 

"  You  want  me  to  confine  myself  to  easy  possibilities  ? " 

"  To  possibilities." 

"  Who  is  to  tell  me  what  is  possible  to  me  ?     Suppose  I  have 


38  A'lLMEXY. 

an  unconscionable  craving,  that  might  make  me  hope  to  win 
this  or  that  prize  ?  Or  don't  you  think  that  one  may  feel  the  de- 
light of  striving  for  anything — however  impossible — a  greater 
happiness  than  the  achieving  of  some  small  immediate  suc- 
cess ?  You  yourself — don't  you  constantly  aim  at  something 
new  and  unknown  in  a  picture,  and  chance  the  failure  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  know  very  accu- 
rately what  I  can  do  ;  but  I  am  out  of  court  in  the  matter.  I 
know  that  I  am  myself  a  failure  ;  and  the  knowledge  doesn't 
bother  me.  All  I  say  to  you  is  this — take  heed  not  to  set 
your  desires  too  high ;  for  to  you  a  disappointment  might  be  a 
catastrophe  of  a  sudden  and  final  kind." 

For  me  to  set  my  desires  too  high  !  I  inwardly  laughed  at 
the  notion.  Was  it  not  enough  that  I  was  permitted  at  times 
to  break  through  the  hard  conditions  of  life  by  dreaming  ? — 
by  dreaming  of  things  which  were  possible  to  others,  but  which 
were  to  me  forever  impossible. 

So  we  went  around  and  entered  Regent's  Park.  Heather- 
leigh  kept  talking  of  all  sorts  of  things — following,  as  usual, 
the  most  diverse  moods  of  morbid  introspection,  of  gay  raillery, 
of  bitter  sarcasm.  Yet  all  this  was  colored  by  a  broad,  warm 
light  of  kindliness  which,  I  suppose,  partly  owed  its  origin  to 
the  evident  enjoyment  he  had  in  exercising  himself  in  any  way. 
Life  was  really  a  happiness  to  him  ;  and  his  sharp  speeches, 
and  brooding  analyses,  and  light-hearted  jocularity  were  as 
great  a  delight  to  him  as  the  physical  acts  of  breathing  and 
seeing  and  walking — all  of  which  he  enjoyed  with  an  enjoy- 
ment that  was  at  times  just  a  trifle  too  conscious.  I  do  not 
believe  that  he  had  a  single  care  to  cloud  his  mind.  He  had 
long  ago  cut  all  connection  with  whatever  relatives  he  may 
have  had  ;  and  was  free  from  necessary  friendships  and  forced 
duties.  His  few  acquaintances  were  of  his  own  manner  of 
living  ;  and  he  could  obtain  their  society  just  in  such  propor- 
tion as  he  chose.  He  could  make  more  money  than  he 
needed  ;  and  the  labor  was  neither  painful  nor  irksome  to  him. 
He  had  no  particular  aim  or  desire  to  torment  him  ;  he  rejoiced 
in  his  physical  strength,  in  his  mental  clearness,  as  he  rejoiced 
in  the  flavors  of  food  and  beer  and  tobacco.  How  a  man, 
living  under  such  circumstances,  failed  to  become  a  selfish 
misanthrope,  I  never  could  understand. 

"  Don't  you  ever  mean  to  marry  ? "  I  said  to  him,  this 
morning,  as  we  were  passing  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and 
were  coming  in  view  of  the  broad  park,  that  lay  green  and 
beautiful  in  the  May  sunlight. 

"  Sometimes  I  wish  somebody  would  take  the  trouble  to 


.IKA'.  .19 

marry  me,"  lie  said.  "  I  think  I  am  in  the  position  of  a  good 
many  unmarried  men.  They  know  they  could  be  very  affection- 
ate and  contented  if  they  married;  but  they  know  the  bother 
and  peril  of  looking  for  a  wife,  and  don't  care  to  run  the 
risk.  You  glance  around  the  circle  of  your  acquaintance, 
and  see  a  number  of  more  or  less  sensible,  pretty,  and  well- 
meaning  girls.  You  can't  marry  one  of  them  without  spend- 
ing ever  so  much  time  and  anxiety  in  finding  out  her  disposi- 
tion, and  also  without  encountering  the  nuisance  of  rivalship. 
Then  you  may  either  find  yourself  mistaken  and  be  disgusted 
with  your  waste  of  trouble,  or  you  may  really  fall  in  love 
with  her,  and  find  her  perverse  or  inclined  to  marry  some- 
body else — and  so  on  ;  while  all  the  time  you  are  losing  the 
best  years  of  your  life  in  this  perplexing  and  irritating,  and 
often  comfortless  search.  Of  course,  I  am  talking  of  men 
who  are  a  little  anxious  about  the  sort  of  woman  they  mean 
to  marry.  At  your  age  I  fell  in  love  with  everything  that 
wore  ear-rings,  and  would  have  married  anybody  capable  of 
saying  '  I  will.'  " 

"Yet  men  do  marry,"  I  said,  "in  spite  of  all  the  current 
talk." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  in  the  mean  time  they  do.  But  if 
our  young  men  cultivate  their  present  notions  and  habits,  we 
shall  soon  have  this  world  getting  so  far  to  be  like  heaven 
that  there  shall  be  in  it  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in 
marriage.  At  present — " 

Either  he  paused  or  I  forgot  to  listen.  For  some  minutes 
I  had  been  gazing  vaguely  at  two  figures  which  were  walking 
slowly  towards  us  under  the  trees.  While  they  were  yet  a 
long  way  off,  the  lines  of  sunshine  falling  across  the  path 
from  between  the  branches  gleamed  upon  them  from  time  to 
time ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  materials  for  a  very 
pretty  French  picture  were  there  before  us — in  the  straight 
road,  the  long  and  narrowing  avenue  of  trees,  the  bars  of 
sunlight,  and  the  fashionably  dressed  ladies  who  were  walk- 
ing together.  Without  thinking  of  them.  I  was  admiring  the 
contrast  in  their  costume.  One  of  them  wore  a  tight-fitting 
dress  of  black  silk  and  crape,  with  a  rather  lengthy  train 
that  added  height  and  dignity  to  her  somewhat  short  and 
slight  figure.  Even  at  that  distance  I  could  see  that  she 
walked  with  a  wonderful  ease  and  grace,  that  made  the 
girlish  little  person  look  almost  majestic.  Incedit  rcgina. 
Her  companion,  on  the  other  hand,  actually  shone  in  the 
sunlight ;  for  she  wore  a  gauzy  dress,  the  upper  and  tight 
portion  of  which  was  touched  here  and  there  with  bright 


40  KILMENY. 

blue,  while  the  under  part  revealed  a  bold  clash  of  color  in 
the  gleam  of  a  blue  silk  petticoat.  Then  she  wore  a  small 
while  hat  with  a  blue  feather  in  it ;  and  she  had  a  bit  of 
blue  near  her  neck ;  while  she  carried  in  her  arms  a  white 
Pomeranian  dog,  which,  like  herself,  wore  a  collar  of  blue 
satin  ribbon,  with  absurdly  big  bows.  She  had  profuse 
golden  hair,  and  a  bright  complexion  that  the  twilight  of  her 
white  parasol  scarcely  dimmed.  Indeed,  so  very  brilliant 
and  beautiful  was  this  apparition,  that  as  the  belts  of  sun- 
light through  which  she  passed  broadened,  and  as  she  came 
nearer,  I  could  not  keep  from  regarding  the  harmonious 
taste  of  the  dress  and  the  singular  effect  the  whole  figure 
produced  in  the  alternate  green  shadow  and  yellow  sunlight 
— insomuch  that  I  paid  no  attention  to  the  other  lady  by  her 
side. 

I  suppose  we  all  of  us  often  look  at  people  without  seeing 
them  — stare  in  their  faces,  while  thinking  of  something  else, 
and  are  not  yet  quite  guiltless  of  intentional  rudeness.  I 
know  that  I  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  trance,  and  heard 
nothing  more  of  Heatherleigh's  voice,  when  I  suddenly 
observed  a  smile  of  surprise  appear  on  the  face  of  the  girl 
in  white  and  blue.  I  knew,  rather  than  saw,  that  Heather- 
leigh  lifted  his  hat,  and  went  forward  to  speak  to  her,  At 
the  same  time,  as  I  was  naturally  passing  on,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  pair  of  eyes  that  had  been  looking  at  me.  I 
only  remembered,  a  minute  afterwards,  when  the  cold  shiver 
had  gone  out  of  me,  that  these  dark,  luminious,  gray-blue 
eyes  had  also  a  certain  surprise  in  them — perhaps  a  kindly 
surprise,  and  inquiry. 

Heatherleigh  stopped  and  talked  to  the  two  girls  for  several 
minutes,  and  I  was  glad.  I  never  could  understand  the  easy 
dexterity  with  which  the  matter-of-fact  people  in  the  Script- 
ures encountered  the  most  startling  and  unexpected  things — 
how  this  man  answered  directly  and  frankly  the  questions  of 
an  angel ;  how  the  other  accepted  some  great  miracle  as  a 
thing  of  course,  and  only  to  be  considered  as  getting  him 
food  or  water.  Why  were  they  not  wholly  paralyzed  and 
overwhelmed  with  wonder  ?  why  did  they  not  instinctively  beg 
for  time  to  comprehend  and  realize  the  mystery  before  them  ? 

"  What  a  singular  coincidence  !  "  said  Heatherleigh,  laugh- 
ing, when  he  came  up.  "  I  was  just  going  to  speak  of  her  in 
connection  with  your  marriage  topic.  Do  you  know  who  that 
was  ?  " 

"  The  lady  in  blue  and  white  ? " 

«  Yes." 


AV  AY.VA.Vy'S  PARK'.  41 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"  That,  Master  Apelles,  is  the  young  person  to  whom  Polly 
and  I  mean  to  hand  you  over  in  order  that  your  artistic  edu- 
cation may  be  completed.  That  is  she  whom  her  numerous 
admirers  and  victims  call  *  Bonnie  Lesley.'  " 

"  You  have  warned  me  effectively,"  I  replied. 

''That  may  have  been  a  mistake  of  mine,  from  an  artistic 
point  of  view,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  But  perhaps  if  I  were  to 
tell  you  why  I  like  to  run  down  that  young  creature,  you  might 
be  inclined  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  her,  and  impound  me. 
After  all,  she  is  a  very  nice  sort  of  girl.  She  is  staying  at 
the  Lewisons'  at  present,  as  I  imagined  when  I  heard  her 
sing  there.  I  fancy  she  lives  there  chiefly  now.  I  told  her 
the  service  I  wanted  of  her  as  regards  you.  She  was  very 
willing ;  and  hopes  you  will  go  with  me  to  the  Lewisons'  house 
on  Thursday  evening.  It  is  only  one  of  their  ordinary  even- 
ings— aesthetics  and  mild  refreshments.  I  promised  you 
would  come  with  me." 

I  looked  at  him  :  I  thought  he  was  joking ;  but  he  was 
not. 

"  One  or  two  young  men  about  town  come  in  evening 
dress,"  he  continued ;  "  but  Lewison  doesn't  care  about  that 
element,  and  discourages  it.  His  wife  likes  it,  for  the  sake 
of  her  young-lady  friends,  and  of  course  where  Bonnie  Lesley 
is,  there  young  fools  are  sure  to  be." 

"  What  did  she  do  to  you,"  I  said  to  him,  "  that  you  should 
be  so  bitter  about  her  ?  " 

"  She  once  made  me  believe  that  she  had  a  heart ;  but  I 
discovered  afterwards  that  it  was  only  an  organ  with  two  open- 
ings, situated  in  a  cavity  of  the  chest,  for  the  convenience  of 
the  lungs." 

"  I  fancy  I  can  understand." 

"  No;  don't  mistake  me;  Bonnie  Lesley  and  I  were  never 
lovers.  But  of  that  anon.  What  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  this  : 
mind,  in  speaking  to  her,  not  to  ask  her  too  particularly  where 
she  has  lived — I  mean,  in  what  particular  place  she  was 
brought  up." 

"Where  do  her  parents  live?  " 

"  She  hasn't  any." 

"Her  relations,' then?" 

"  She  hasn't  any.  I  don't  think  she  ever  had  either  the  one 
or  the  other.  I  imagine  that  on  some  hushed,  warm  after- 
noon in  summer,  when  everything  was  lazy  and  quiet  and 
solemn,  somebody  in  some  still  valley  saw  a  small  angel, 
dressed  in  blue  and  white,  with  a  tiny  white  hat  and  a  blue 


42  KILMENY, 

feather,  drop  quietly  down  from  the  clouds.  And  she  has 
gro\vn  up  to  be  Bonnie  Lesley,  and  the  hat  has  grown  with 
her.  Really  there  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  of  vagueness 
about  her  antecedents.  For  myself,  I  only  know  that  she  is 
acquainted  with  some  parts  of  France  and  Germany.  Who- 
ever called  hef  Bonnie  Lesley  must  have  supposed  she  was 
Scotch ;  but,  if  she  is,  she  must  take  uncommon  pains  to  con- 
ceal the  fact.  She  has  her  notions  of  form  and  color,  too, 
has  that  young  woman.  Do  you  know  what  she  said  of 
you  ? " 

"  No." 

"  That  you  might,  with  proper  dressing,  resemble  either 
Dante,  Schiller,  or  Vandyke.  She  preferred  Vandyke  her- 
self ;  and  I  promised  to  get  you  to  buy  a  big  brown  beaver, 
with  a  broad  and  clashing  rim." 

"  Tell  me  honestly — did  you  or  she  speak  of  me  at  all  ?  "  I 
said. 

"  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  she  expects  to  see  you 
at  the  Lewisons'  on  Thursday  next." 

"What  did  the  lady  who  was  with  her  say  ?  " 

"  The  girl  in  black  ?  Nothing  particular.  By  the  way,  I 
did  not  catch  her  name  when  I  was  introduced  to  her." 

"  I  can  tell  you  that,"  said  I :  "it  is  Miss  Hester  Burn- 
ham." 

"  What  ? — the  girl  who  has  got  the  big  house  down  in  that 
valley  you  are  constantly  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Yes.  My  father  is  her  gamekeeper.  I  suppose  she,  too, 
is  staying  at  the  Lewisons'  and  I  dare  say  you  would  con- 
sider it  rather  a  good  joke  if  I  were  to  go  there  and  meet  her 
on  equal  terms  ! " 

"  Monsieur,  you  mistake.  When  you  enter  the  ^Esthetic 
Grotto  you  leave  all  such  considerations  behind.  Besides, 
what  does  it  matter  to  you  whether  your  father  is  Miss  Burn- 
ham's  keeper,  or  the  devil,  or  a  bishop  ?  You  are  an  artist. 
I  have  given  you  the  royal  accolade.  You  are  the  equal  of 
all  men  upon  the  earth,  even  if  your  purse  be  rather  short,  and 
your  reputation  nothing  to  speak  of.  But  if  I  had  known 
that  the  quiet  little  girl  was  Miss  Burnham,  I  should  have 
looked  at  her  attentively.  I  only  know  that  she  had  singularly 
fine  eyes,  and  a  soft  and  pretty  voice." 

I  was  unwilling  to  let  him  imagine  that  because  my  father 
was  a  gamekeeper  (though  even  that  suggested  the  propriety 
of  my  not  meeting  Miss  Burnham)  I  did  not  wish  to  go  to  the 
Lewisons'  house.  So  I  told  him  the  whole  story  of  that 
visit  to  Burnham,  which  was  yet  fresh  and  keen  in 'my  mem- 


THE  ESTHETIC  GROTTO.  43 

ory.  When  I  had  finished,  he  looked  at  me  curiously,  and 
suid — 

"You  are  a  ouange  creature.     I  can't  make  you  out." 

"If  you  had  been  in  my  place,"  I  asked,  "wouldn't  you 
have  felt  as  I  felt  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  laughed  at  the  whole  affair.  I  should  not 
be  glowing  with  indignation  and  anger  and  wrath  as  you  are 
now.  Come,  suppose  we  go  to  Lewisons'  on  Thursday. 
Suppose  we  beg  Miss  Burnham  to  rebel  against  her  womanly 
instincts,  and  speak  the  truth  for  once.  Suppose  we  ask 
her—" 

"  If  I  go,"  I  said  to  him  (while  I  felt  my  face  flush),  "  it 
will  be  to  meet  her  as  an  equal." 

"  Bravely  spoken,"  said  he,  "  but  you  forget  one  thing  :  it 
is  very  unlikely  she  will  be  there.  The  Lewisons'  house  is 
not  a  hotel.11 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    AESTHETIC    GROTTO. 

BUT  long  before  Thursday  evening  my  courage  failed  me. 
I  had  had  wild  ideas  of  revenge  and  self-assertion,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it ;  but  not  even  these  would  permit  me  to  be  guilty  of 
an  impertinence ;  and  an  impertinence  I  certainly  considered 
the  notion  of  my  being  present  as  a  guest  in  any  house  where 
Miss  Burnham  was  also  a  guest.  I  told  Heatherleigh  I 
would  not  go. 

In  the  meantime  I  applied  myself  earnestly  to  whatever 
snatches  of  work  he  allowed  me  to  undertake.  Looking 
back  at  that  strange  probationary  period,  I  can  scarcely  say 
whether  I  had  grown  bold  enough  to  consider  certain  dreams 
of  mine  possible  of  realization,  or  whether  it  was  only  the 
fever  of  impatience  and  desire,  begotten  of  a  certain  extrava- 
gant purpose  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  art,  which  drove 
me  into  constant  and  painful  effort  to  leap  over  necessary 
study  and  achieve  definite  results.  Heatherleigh  looked  at 
the  matter  from  a  practical  point  of  view. 

"  You  are  still  laboring  under  the  habit  you  acquired  in 
Weavle's  place,"  he  said,  "  of  thinking  that  you  must  con- 
stantly be  working.  Why,  absolute  idleness  is  the  very  com- 
missariat of  art — that  fine,  respective  calm  in  which  you  are 


44  KILMENY, 

storing  up,  unconsciously,  experiences  and  reflections  for 
future  use.  You  work  as  if  Weavle  were  constantly  at  vour 
elbow." 

Polly  Whistler  took  great  interest  in  my  progress,  and  used 
to  tell  the  most  audacious  lies  in  the  form  of  criticism  upon 
my  labor.  I  was  so  very  grateful  for  her  encouragement  and 
kindness,  that  I  was  nearly  falling  in  love  with  her.  But  Polly 
had  a  fine  practical  way  with  her,  which  not  only  instantly 
detected  any  such  tentative  lapse  from  the  explicit  relations 
existing  between  her  and  the  people  around  her,  but  also  set 
the  matter  straight  again  with  a  surprising  and  business-like 
swiftness.  Early  love,  of  this  nebulous  and  uncertain  kind, 
thrives  upon  secrecy,  but  is  killed  by  frankness ;  and  Polly 
was  uncommonly  frank. 

"  I'll  be  a  mother  to  you,  if  you  like,"  she  said  to  me,  in 
her  merry  way,  "  but  you  musn't  fall  in  love  with  me,  because 
then  you  would  get  angry  because  I  didn't  fall  in  love  with 
you.  It  seems  to  me  a  pity  that  men  and  women  can't  be 
friends  with  each  other  without  falling  in  love  and  spoiling  it 
all,  becoming  jealous  and  cantankerous  and  exacting.  Every- 
body should  take  a  lesson  from  Mr.  Heatherleigh  and  me." 

I  looked  up  at  her  as  she  uttered  the  last  words,  and  she 
inadvertently  dropped  her  eyes. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  proposed  meeting  at  Lewison's 
house.  On  the  Wednesday,  Heatherleigh  brought  me  a  posi- 
tive assurance  that  Miss  Burnham  could  not  be  present  on 
the  following  evening,  and  also  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewison's  cards, 
with  their  compliments.  In  the  end  I  went. 

This  was  my  first  introduction  into  anything  like  society ; 
and  for  a  time  I  could  scarcely  tell,  myself,  what  my  first  im- 
pressions were.  The  chief  thing  that  struck  me,  I  think,  was 
the  extreme  quiet  and  repose  of  the  people.  They  seemed 
to  live  in  a  delicate  atmosphere,  which  caused  small  sensa- 
tions to  appear  large  to  them.  They  never  had  to  emphasize 
what  they  had  to  say ;  and  there  was  a  general  apprehension 
of  minute  points  and  appearances  which  made  me  a  little 
nervous.  The  very  air  of  the  room  seemed  to  be  fine  and 
watchful  and  critical. 

Mr.  Lewison  was  a  tall,  fair  man,  with  a  partially  bald  head, 
dark  blue  eyes,  and  a  red  moustache.  He  had  a  peculiarly 
bland,  easy  manner  about  him  which  puzzled  me ;  because 
it  seemed  to  lift  him  so  entirely  above  that  sphere  of  struggle 
and  competition  and  passionate  impulses  with  which  I  was 
familiar.  I  think  he  had  been  in  business  ;  at  any  rate,  he 
was  now  living  as  a  private  gentleman,  his  chief  amusement 


77..  .7- y/c'  u'A'Or/V.  45 

being  the  making  of  liis  house  an  open  resort  for  all  sorts  of 
artistic  and  literary  persons. 

When  Ilraiherloigh  and  I  entered  the  large  and  brilliant 
room  there  were  not  more  than  a  dozen  people  there.  Miss 
Lesley  was  at  the  piano,  singing  a  rather  commonplace  bal- 
lad in  her  splendid  style.  She  had  an  excellent  soprano 
voice,  tenderly  expressive,  and  perfectly  cultivated.  There 
was  a  gentleman  by  her  side,  in  evening  dress,  who  was  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  music  for  her. 

I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lewison,  and  found  myself 
surprisingly  at  ease  with  both.  Indeed,  I  found  at  this  time 
that,  however  apprehensive  I  might  be  about  meeting  any 
stranger,  I  had  no  sooner  begun  to  enter  into  conversation 
than  my  embarrassment  vanished.  Besides,  all  the  respon- 
sibilities and  formalities  lay  upon  Heatherleigh. 

When  Miss  Lesley  had  finished  singing  she  took  the  arm 
of  the  gentleman  who  had  been  waiting  upon  her,  and  crossed 
the  room  towards  us.  I  saw  with  dismay  that  her  companion 
was  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham.  Instinctively  I  glanced  around 
the  room  again  to  see  that  she  whom  I  had  feared  to  meet 
was  not  there.  No  ;  there  was  no  one  even  resembling  her. 

The  young  man  with  the  hook  nose,  the  cold  gray  eyes, 
and  closely  cropped  yellowish  hair  moved  off  to  another  part 
of  the  room,  and  Miss  Lesley  was  left  talking  to  Heather- 
leigh. Then  Heatherleigh  introduced  me  to  her  ;  and,  some- 
how or  other,  I  found  myself  seated  beside  her  on  a  couch, 
turning  over  a  collection  of  proof-engravings. 

I  had  listened  to  her  voice  but  for  a  few  minutes,  when  I 
began  to  wonder  how  Heatherleigh  could  have  spoken  so  un- 
fairly of  the  girl.  Was  it  to  surprise  me  with  the  contrast  ? 
She  had  a  face  that,  in  spite  of  its  full-grown  and  developed 
beauty — its  broad,  fine  tints,  and  dazzling  complexion — was 
almost  childlike  in  its  simplicity  of  expression  :  large,  blue 
eyes  of  great  tenderness  of  color  and  depth;  a  full  little 
mouth,  rosy  and  plump ;  a  somewhat  low,  smooth,  Grecian 
brow;  and  great  masses  of  yellow  hair,  that  were  artistically 
arranged  and  decorated  with  a  broad  band  of  violet  velvet. 
She  wore  a  low  white  dress,  with  a  train  of  heavy  violet  satin, 
and  there  was  around  her  white  neck  a  thick  gold  serpent, 
whose  diamond  head  and  ruby  eyes,  lying  upon  her  bosom, 
scarcely  rose  and  fell  as  she  breathed  or  laughed.  That  this 
glorious  creature  should  waste  upon  me — upon-  me  alone — a 
single  thought  or  word  would  at  another  time  have  seemed 
incredibly  absurd  to  me  ;  but  under  the  spell  of  her  voice — • 
which  had  a  scarcely  perceptible  lisp  that  was  singularly 


46  KILMENY. 

quaint  and  attractive — I  forgot  all  considerations  of  whatever 
kind,  and  went  on  talking  to  her  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream, 
only  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  voice  in  reply. 

She  asked  me  if  I  like  the  song  she  had  sung.  There  was 
but  one  answer  to  the  question  :  perhaps  i  did  not  limit  my 
expressions  as  I  ought  to  have  done. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  smile  in  her  eyes, 
as  she  played  with  an  ivory  paper-knife  that  she  held  in  her 
tiny  white  fingers,  "because  here,  you  know,  they  don't  care 
for  anything  but  classical  music.  I  feel  very  guilty  when  I 
sing  anything  that  is  simple  and  commonplace,  and  I  am  so 
pleased  to  discover  that  some  particular  one  here  or  there 
has  been  enjoying  it.  You  like  ballad-music,  then  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  any  kind  of  music,  played  on  any  kind  of 
instrument,  that  I  did  not  like,"  I  said,  enthusiastically,  but 
with  absolute  truth — "  so  long  as  it  was  in  tune.  I  am  like  a 
confirmed  drunkard,  who  will  drink  anything  that  will  intoxi- 
cate him ;  and  the  effect  that  music  has  upon  me  is  more  in- 
toxication than  anything  else." 

"  But  Mr.  Heatherleigh  says  you  are  an  artist.  Why,  with 
such  a  passion  for  music,  did  you  not  become  a  musician  ? " 

"  I  am  neither  an  artist  nor  a  musician,  nor  anything  else 
that  produces,"  I  said ;  "  but  there  is  no  sort  of  art  that  I  do 
not  enjoy.  As  for  being  a  musician,  I  dare  say  I  should  keep 
in  tune  if  I  played  on  the  drum." 

"But  if  you  enjoy  every  kind  of  music,"  she  said,  with  a 
kind  of  childish  wonder,  "  what  is  the  value  of  a  compliment 
from  you  ?  Perhaps  you  thought  the  song  I  sung  rather 
stupid,  although  you  like  the  jingle  of  the  music." 

"  Well,  I  did,"  I  said. 

"  But  you  must  prefer  some  kind  of  music  to  other  kinds." 

"  I  should  have  preferred  hearing  you  sing  a  German  song 
that  you  once  sung  when  I  was  listening  outside  at  the 
railings." 

"  Ah,  do  you  like  German  music  ? "  she  said,  turning  her 
large  and  beautiful  eyes  upon  my  face,  and  blinding  me.  "  I 
love  it.  I  think  it  is  charming." 

Now  "charming"  is  not  exactly  the  adjective  which  I 
should  have  applied  to  German  music.  I  never  could  see 
prettiness  in  the  sea.  But  then  Miss  Lesley  was  a  very  young 
girl ;  and  very  young  girls  are  not  always  apt  at  choosing  the 
proper  word  to  describe  their  emotion  or  opinion.  If  you 
had  looked  at  the  perfect  flower  of  her  face,  at  its  changing 
lights  and  tenderness,  you  would  have  seen  that  the  pathos 
and  utter  misery  of  the  old  German  ballads,  and  the  mystic 


ESTHETIC  GROTTO.  47 

grandeur  of  the  German  classical  music,  were  somehow  them- 
selves expressed  there. 

We  talked  of  all  manner  of  things — of  the  pictures  before 
us,  of  artistic  subjects  generally,  of  the  people  in  the  room. 
On  the  last  point,  she  was  very  confidential ;  describing  not 
only  the  one  or  two  celebrities  present,  but  also  her  own  im- 
pressions of  them.  What  chiefly  struck  me  about  her  was  her 
childlike  desire  to  obtain  information.  Once  or  twice  I  turned 
and  regarded  her,  to  see  if  she  were  making  fun  ;  but  no — the 
large,  infantine  blue  eyes  still  begged  for  the  knowledge  she 
had  demanded.  She  was  so  anxious  to  acquire  a  correct 
taste  in  artistic  matters,  she  said.  She  did  not  wish  to  appear 
stupid ;  and  she  would  be  very  grateful  if  I  would  privately 
give  her  some  little  assistance. 

"  You  see  how  I  am  situated,"  she  said,  as  she  pretended  to 
turn  over  the  engravings  which  neither  of  us  heeded.  *;  I 
meet  here  men  and  women  who  are  profoundly  learned  in 
subjects  of  which  I  know  nothing.  I  dare  not  speak  of  these 
things  and  confess  my  ignorance,  or  they  would  look  upon  me 
as  a  barbarian.  Now,  with  regard  to  old  pictures,  the  only 
rule  I  have  been  able  to  make  out  for  myself  is  to  admire  what- 
ever is  very  dirty,  very  ugly,  and  indistinguishable.  In  crock- 
ery— enarnelledyh:/>//^,  don't  they  call  it  ? — in  china  and  glass, 
and  such  things,  I  find  my  only  chance  is  to  seize  upon  what 
is  more  than  usually  absurd  and  extravagant.  If  the  lizards, 
frogs,  and  eels  on  the  plate  are  very  ugly  and  ridiculous,  then 
one  is  safe  in  praising  it ;  and  if  the  drinking-glass  be  dirty, 
of  a  bad  shape,  and  useless,  it  is  certain  to  be  some  rare 
specimen  of  Venetian  or  some  such  ware.  I  find  it  the  same 
in  other  things.  If  one  is  turning  over  a  collection  of  ferns, 
for  instance,  one  may  be  certain  that  the  ugliest  and  most  in- 
significant are  the  rarest.  Of  course,  it  is  only  my  ignorance 
that  makes  me  think  so,  and  I  should  be  so  grateful  to  any 
one  who  would  kindly  explain  to  me  the  real  beauty  of  artistic 
marvels.  But  then,  it  would  have  to  be  quite  secret — this  in 
struction.  When  grown-up  people  learn  to  dance,  you  know, 
they  are  very  much  ashamed  of  the  process,  and  make  it  quite 
private.  Suppose  you  were  to  go  and  bring  me  the  black  thing 
that  Mr.  Lewison  has  just  put  down — on  the  top  shelf  of  that 
Chinese  whatnot." 

It  was  a  Japanese  jug  in  bronze,  with  a  curious  handle, 
and  a  long,  slender  spout.  The  design  of  the  jug  was  very 
graceful,  and  the  workmanship  remarkably  delicate.  I 
fetched  it,  and  showed  it  to  Miss  Lesley,  who  regarded  it  with 


4S  KILMENY. 

that  air  of  pretty  wonder  which  was  almost  the  typical  expres- 
sion of  her  face. 

"  Shall  we  go  into  the  room  opposite?  "  she  said.  "They 
use  it  as  a  sort  of  picture-gallery,  and  I  suppose  you  have  not 
seen  the  pictures." 

She  took  my  arm,  and  we  left.  The  large  room  we  found 
to  be  lit  up,  although  there  was  no  one  in  it.  There  was  an 
imposing  array  of  pictures  all  around,  and  one  of  them  espe- 
cially having  caught  my  eye  as  I  entered,  we  went  towards  it. 
I  can  remember  only  that  it  was  the  figure  of  a  young  man, 
who  sat  dejected  and  aione  amid  a  curious  flood  of  golden 
light.  The  whole  character  of  the  painting  was  Greek  ;  and 
i*  was  apparently  decorative  in  treatment.  Despite  the  ob- 
vious mannerism  of  it,  it  was  a  work  of  singular  power. 

"  Isn't  it  very  pretty?  "  she  said,  with  the  same  expiession 

of  gentle  wonder  on  her  face.  "  It  was  done  by ,  who  is 

a  great  friend  of 's  the  poet,  whom  you  will  see  here  to- 
night, most  likely.  It  represents  some  story,  Mr.  Heather- 
leigh  told  me  ;  but  he  did  not  say  what  it  was." 

"  I  know  the  story,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  name 
of  the  young  poet,  who  had  then  just  made  his  appearance, 
and  who  was  puzzling  the  sober-minded  critics  with  the  reck- 
less impertinences  and  willfulnesses  of  his  unmistakable 
genius. 

"  Will  you  tell  it  to  me  ?  "  she  said,  sitting  down  upon  a 
couch. 

"  How  can  I  translate  it  into  prose  ?  "  I  answered.  "  How- 
ever, the  story  is  of  a  young  Scandinavian  poet  who  dies. 
You  find  him  in  the  world  of  spirits,  wandering  about  moody 
and  discontented.  Odin  comes  to  him,  and  asks  him  why  he 
complains.  He  says  it  is  because  the  maiden  whom  he 
loved  on  earth  must  now  have  grown  old  and  gray  and  wrink- 
led, and  when  she,  too,  comes  into  heaven,  he  will  not  be  able 
to  recognize  her. 

"  '  Does  she  love  you  still  ? '  asks  the  god. 

"  '  Her  love  is  like  mine,'  says  the  poet ;  *  it  is  the  same 
always.' 

"  So  Odin  sends  him  clown  to  earth,  and  bids  him  seek  out 
his  old  love.  He  wanders  about,  and  cannot  find  her.  At 
last  he  enters  a  chamber,  and  finds  there  the  dead  body  of  an 
old  and  wrinkled  woman,  and  they  tell  him  that  the  dead 
woman  is  the  woman  he  loved.  At  first  he  is  sorowful,  and 
then  he  is  glad ;  for  he  says,  '  I  still  love  her ;  and  now  I 
shall  know  her  when  I  get  back  to  heaven.'  So  he  bids  fare- 
well to  earth  again,  and  prepares  to  meet  his  love  grown  old 


THE  ,-KSTHETlC  CKOTTC.  49 

and  careworn.  But  he  is  just  entering  heaven  when  lie  sees 
before  him,  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  the  very  maiden  whom 
he  knew  in  his  youth.  She  comes  forward,  and  takes  him 
by  the  hand  ;  but  he  is  half-afraid,  for  he  thinks  that  Odin  has 
played  him  a  trick. 

11  •  Are   you   really   my   little    Frida,  whom  I  loved   long 

"  •  I  am  your  little  Frida ;  don't  you  know  me  ? '  she  asks. 

"  *  But  I  saw  you  lying  dead  ;  and  you  were  old  and  gray/ 

"  *  And  don't  you  know,'  she  says,  4  that  the  gods  have  de- 
creed that  whoever  loves  truly  shall  always  be  young  ?  I 
shall  be  always  to  you  your  little  Frida,  whom  you  loved  long 
ago." 

When  I  had  finished  my  poor  effort  at  conveying  a  notion 
of  the  story,  she  sighed  gently,  and  said — 

"  How  very  pretty  !     Do  you  know  many  of  these  stories  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  for  that  is  the  story  of  a  modern  poem  ; 
but  old  Scandinavian  and  German  poetry  is  full  of  such  le- 
gends." 

"  I  should  like  to  listen  to  them  forever,"  she  said,  with  a 
sort  of  pleased  curiosity  in  her  eyes. 

Then  wre  rose,  and  made  a  tour  of  the  pictures.  Her  re- 
marks puzzled  and  perplexed  me.  It  was  not  that  she  made 
any  great  mistakes,  or  talked  nonsense  ;  but  that  she  seemed 
to  have  the  same  appreciation  of  every  quality  of  excellence. 
Nothing  seemed  to  affect  her  beyond  a  certain  point ;  and 
everything  seemed  to  reach  that  point.  We  crossed  a  very 
pretty  hearth-rug,  and  I  drew  her  attention  to  the  quiet  and 
artistic  pattern  of  it — so  different  from  the  staring  bunches 
of  red  roses  and  white  ribbon  which  I  had  seen  in  uphol- 
sterers' windows.  Well,  she  appeared  to  be  as  much  struck 
by  that  as  by  a  small  moonlight  scene  of  Turner's,  which  was 
a  wonder  of  idealized  and  yet  literal  faithfulness.  Sometimes, 
when  a  particular  picture  seemed  very  striking  or  powerful 
to  me,  I  almost  begged  her  to  be  a  little  more  enthusiastic  in 
her  admiration,  and  then  she  always  was — in  words.  By 
this  time  we  had  grown  quite  familiar  with  each  other.  She 
confessed  afterwards  that  she  was  astonished  by  my  easy 
frankness  ;  but  then  I  knew  nothing  of  the  reserve  that  so- 
ciety demands,  and  she  undoubtedly  failed  to  impress  it  upon 
me.  She  so  little  overawed  me  that  I  began  to  wonder  what 
most  affected  her — on  what  side  of  her  character  she  was 
most  receptive  and  impressionable.  For  pictures,  it  was 
clear,  she  cared  little  ;  or,  rather,  she  had  a  general  liking, 
.4 


50  KILMEXY. 

which  may  have  been  indiscriminate  through  imperfect  edu- 
cation. But  she  was  never  moved  by  a  picture  ;  and  I  gathered 
from  her  admissions  that  she  had  no  great  preference  for  any 
kind  of  music.  I  wondered  whether,  on  hearing  Mozart's 
Sonata  in  A  sharp,  or  one  of  Mendelssohn's  splendid 
choruses,  she  would  only  express  a  faint  surprise,  as  she  did 
on  meeting  a  masterpiece  in  painting.  Or  was  it  that  all  the 
artistic  side  of  her  nature  was  cold  and  shallow,  while  in 
matters  of  personal  feeling  she  was  receptive  and  warm  and 
deep? 

Perhaps  some  temporary  indisposition  might  have  blunted 
her  artistic  perception.  I  have  noticed  that  people  who  were 
ready  to  overpraise  mediocre  work,  and  be  quite  enthusiastic 
about  good  work,  when  they  entered  a  picture-exhibition, 
passed  over  with  indifference  or  cold  distaste  the  very  best 
pictures  when  they  drew  near  the  end  of  their  visit — so  power- 
ful an  agent  is  physical  fatigue  in  destroying  the  keenness  of 
the  aesthetic  sense.  Perhaps  Miss  Lesley  had  a  headache,  or 
was  annoyed  by  the  non-receipt  of  a  letter ;  and  only  out  of 
courtesy  expressed  a  vague  acquiescence  when  I  ventured  to 
praise  a  picture. 

At  all  events,  on  the  emotional  side,  no  one  could  question 
the  generous  width  and  tenderness  of  her  nature.  To  look 
into  her  eyes  was  to  kill  doubt.  The  warm  love-light  of  them 
seemed  to  thaw  reserve,  and  draw  you  closer  to  her.  You 
could  not  help  speaking  in  a  low  voice  to  her;  you  could  not 
help,  if  you  looked  at  her  eyes,  unbosoming  your  most  secret 
confidences  and  begging  for  a  return  of  this  friendly  frank- 
ness. She  seemed  to  have  around  her  an  atmosphere  of 
warmth  and  kindness — an  atmosphere  silent  and  delicious, 
that  predisposed  you  to  waking  dreams.  To  be  near  her  was  to 
breathe  poetry  ;  and  yet  when  you  regarded  the  statuesque 
beauty  of  her  bust  and  neck  and  head,  the  fine  play  of  color 
and  light  in  her  complexion,  the  warm,  supple  contour  of  her 
face,  and  the  life  and  tenderness  of  her  eyes,  you  were  puz- 
zled to  understand  why  this  glorious  woman  should,  even  in 
one  direction,  exhibit  a  hardness  or  thinness  of  character 
that  seemed  so  inconsistent  with  her  soft  and  stately  and 
yielding  beauty. 

I  was  recalled  to  myself  by  hearing  some  voices,  and  when 
I  looked  up  (we  had  again  sat  down,  and  I  was  listening  in- 
tently to  what  she  was  saying)  I  found  Heatherleigh's  eyes 
fixed  on  me,  with  a  peculiar,  mocking  expression  in  them. 
He  had  been  led  into  the  room  by  Mr.  Lewison,  who  was 
talking  to  him  ;  but  when  I  looked  up  he  was  quietly  regard- 


7 7//-:  .KST/IETIC  GROTTO.  51 

\\v^  us  both,  with  a  sardonic  smile  on  his  face.  It  was  a 
smile  that  seemed  to  me  to  have  something  demoniacal  in 
it.  Did  he  imagine,  then,  that  I  was  inclined  to  play  Faust 
to  his  Mephistopheles  ?  No  sooner  had  Miss  Lesley  per- 
ivived  their  presence  than  she  asked  me  to  take  her  into 
the  other  apartment.  I  gladly  consented,  and  so  we  walked 
across  the  room. 

A  little  incident  occurred  as  we  were  going  out. 

"  Miss  Lesley,"  said  Mr.  Lewison,  "do  you  know  why, 
according  to  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  we  ought  to  be  thankful  that 
we  are  Christians  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  Because,  if  we  were  not,  some  other  nation  would  prob- 
ably try  to  make  us  Christians/' 

She  uttered  a  musical  little  laugh  and  passed  on.  But 
when  we  had  got  outside  into  the  hall  she  said — 

"  I  do  dislike  conundrums.  I  never  discovered  the  fun  of 
a  conundrum  even  after  it  was  explained  to  me." 

"  But  that  isn't  quite  a  conundrum,"  I  said,  with  some  sur- 
prise ;  "he  means  that  the  process  of  being  made  a  Christian 
against  your  will  is  rather — " 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  waste  your  time  in  trying  to  explain  a 
joke  to  me,"  she  said,  laughing,  but  still  with  the  most  ob- 
vious candor  and  honesty.  "  I  assure  you  I  never  could 
understand  the  simplest  of  them.  People  will  not  believe 
me  ;  but  I  cannot  even  understand  the  meaning  or  enjoyment 
of  a  pun.  They  show  me  that  they  say  two  things,  using  the 
same  word  in  each ;  but  I  don't  see  the  fun  of  it — I  don't  see 
why  they  shouldn't  use  another  word.  Don't  you  think  me 
very  stupid  ?  Of  course,  I  know  it  is  clever  to  make  a  pun  ; 
but,  if  I  laugh  at  one,  it  is  merely  as  a  compliment,  as  you 
are  expected  to  admire  a  painting  you  don't  care  for." 

Then  she  seemed  to  recall  herself,  shrugged  her  shoulders 
slightly,  and  laughed  the  pretty  little  laugh  again. 

"  There  are  some  people  one  cannot  help  talking  freely 
to  ;  and  perhaps  I  have  been  creating  in  your  mind  a  notion 
that  I  am  a  monster  of  ignorance  and  dullness.  Is  it 
so?" 

Now  I  never  could  pay  a  compliment  to  a  woman.  If  I 
liked  her,  and  admired  this  or  that  in  her  character,  I  could 
and  always  did  become  enthusiastic,  and  was  in  nowise  loth 
to  let  her  know  my  exaggerated  opinion  of  her  excellence.  But 
absolutely  to  pay  a  compliment,  in  the  form  of  a  compliment, 
to  a  woman  who  drove  me  into  it — no.  I  remained  silent 
— perhaps  a  trifle  vexed  that  I  could  not  easily  fence  oft"  the 


52  K1LMENY. 

question  as  any  one  accustomed  to  the  small  word-warfare  of 
society  might  easily  have  done. 

Fortunately  we  were  just  entering  the  other  room  ;  and  so 
my  embarrassment  was  partly  concealed. 

"Why  she  has  come  after  all ! "  exclaimed  my  companion. 

The  next  moment  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  small  darkly 
dressed  figure  ;  and  I  knew  that  it  must  be  Miss  Burnham. 
I  dared  not  look  her.  in  the  face — indeed,  I  scarcely  knew 
what  I  did,  as  Bonnie  Lesley  relinquished  my  arm  and  went 
forward  to  greet  her  friend.  Was  it  she  or  I  who  effected 
the  separation  ?  I  only  know  that  I  walked  away,  without 
once  turning  my  head ;  but  I  heard  Hester  Burnham's  voice, 
and  I  fancied  a  tall  gentleman  who  was  by  her  side  must  be 
Colonel  Burnham.  I  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  to 
a  small  table  which  stood  in  a  corner  and  was  covered  with 
works  in  terra  cotta,  and  there  I  busied  myself  partly  with  them 
and  partly  with  devising  some  means  of  escape.  I  had  no 
time  to  think  of  how  I  had  been  led  into  the  trap ;  my  only 
desire  was  to  get  out  of  it.  It  was  clear  that  Miss  Burnham 
had  arrived  unexpectedly  ;  and  I  knew  that  in  any  case  Heath- 
erleigh  would  not  have  intentionally  deceived  me  ;  so  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  get  quickly  away  from  the  possible 
inconveniences  and  annoyances  of  this  ill  chance. 

I  could  not  walk  out  of  the  house  and  go  home,  without 
offering  some  apology  or  explanation  to  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Lewison 
But  to  get  out  of  the  room  was  my  first  consideration  ;  after- 
wards I  could  seek  Heatherleigh  and  Mr.  Lewison,  and  make 
some  sort  of  excuse. 

I  turned ;  and  there  they  were — those  eyes  !  She  came 
forward  to  me — she  was  alone — and  held  out  her  hand.  Did 
not  I  remember  the  exact  counterpart  of  this  little  scene,  hap- 
pening in  my  mother's  room  long  ago  ?  There  was  the  same 
friendly  light  in  the  wonderful,  wise  eyes  ;  there  was  the 
same  queenly  ease  and  grace  in  the  position  of  the  small  fig- 
ure— the  same  tender  entreaty  in  her  voice,  as  she  said — 

"  Have  you  not  forgiven  me  yet  ?  " 

And  I  was  possessed  by  the  same  insufferable  sense  of 
clumsiness  and  boorishness,  as  I  stood  there  perplexed  and 
embarrassed,  wishing  the  floor  might  open  under  me.  Of 
course,  I  knew  that  she  wanted  no  forgiveness — that  she  did 
not  imagine  she  had  done  me  any  wrong.  I  knew  that  the 
solicitude  of  her  voice  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  were  but  part 
of  that  polite  training  which  people  in  her  position  necessa- 
rily acquire  by  good  example  and  tuition.  It  was  her  sense 
of 'courtesy  that  made  her  come  as  a  beggar  to  me,  and  en- 


//.  /A//C'  CROTTO.  53 

r  to  put  me  nt  my  ease  by  assuming  an  attitude  which 
v»as  absurd.  Jt"  she  had  accidentally  hurt  the  feelings  of  her 
coachman  or  cook,  would  she  not  have  been  equally  desirous 
to  rectify  the  wrong  ?  And  here  was  I,  not  able  to  meet  her 
on  equal  terms — not  knowing  in  what  fashion  to  put  aside 
this  aversion  of  our  natural  and  real  relations.  If  I  had  been 
educated  to  the  fine  sensitiveness  and  delicacy  with  which 
well-bred  persons  treat  such  matters,  I  should  have  been  able 
to  let  her  know  that  I  understood  an  effort  of  courtesy  which 
was  prompted  by  her  sense  of  duty  to  herself — that  I  accepted 
it  for  what  it  was  worth,  and  held  my  position  in  the  affair  as 
nothing  so  long  as  she  was  satisfied — that  I  did  not  mistake 
her  humility,  but  rather  looked  upon  it  as  a  species  of  proper 
pride. 

All  this  passed  hurriedly  and  confusedly  through  my  mind, 
with  the  painful  conviction  that  she  must  be  imagining  that  I 
took  her  words  literally.  Imagine  a  man  so  acquainted  with 
the  symbolic  usages  of  society  as  to  take  the  phrase  "your 
obedient  servant,"  coming  from  a  stranger,  as  literal,  and 
presume  upon  it !  In  lesser  degree,  such  was  the  position 
I  saw  that  I  should  assume  in  Hester  Burnham's  eyes.  Fi- 
nally, I  blurted  out — 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Miss  Burnham.  But  you  know  that 
you  have  nothing  to  forgive.  Why  should  you  take  the  trou- 
ble to  recall  that — that  mistake  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  second  ;  and  I  thanked  God  I  had 
nothing  to  conceal  from  those  calm  and  searching  strange 
eyes. 

"  You  won't  shake  hands  with  me  ?  "  she  said. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  she  sighed  as  she  spoke.  I  could 
have  flung  myself  at  her  feet,  had  I  not  been  vexed  at  the 
same  moment  with  the  thought  that  this  look  of  hers  was 
another  bit  of  that  delicate  by-play  which  an  extreme  social 
courtesy  demanded.  And  it  seemed  to  me  monstrous  that, 
merely  to  preserve  her  personal  pride  in  being  just  and  court- 
eous to  all  persons,  she  should  go  the  length  of  talking  to 
me,  who  must  be  an  insignificant  nothing  in  her  eyes,  in  a 
way  that  otherwise  might  have  driven  a  man  mad.  Had  she 
but  meant  what  her  look  and  speech  and  tone  conveyed,  I 
would  have  said  to  her,  "  You  are  too  kind  to  one  such  as  I 
am.  What  can  I  give  you  in  return  for  your  kindness  ?  I  have 
nothing  of  any  value,  except  it  be  my  life  :  if  it  will  but  give 
you  five  minutes'  pleasure,  I  will  lay  it  with  joy  at  your 
feet." 

What  I  did  sav  was  this — • 


54  KILMENY. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  speak  of  it  any  more,  Miss  Burnham. 
It  is  too  small  a  matter  for  you  to  think  twice  about." 

And  as  I  did  not  consider  it  was  for  her  and  me  to  shake 
hands,  I  did  not  offer  her  my  hand. 

She  turned  away  then,  a  little  proudly  perhaps,  and  took  the 
arm  of  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  who  was  coming  towards  her. 
Mrs.  Lewison  came  and  sat  down  beside  me.  I  don't  know 
what  she  talked  about,  for  Hester  Burnham  was  now  singing. 

Then  I  left  the  room,  and  found  that  Heatherleigh,  with 
one  or  two  other  men,  were  in  the  smoking-room  up-stairs. 
Heatherleigh  was  in  an  excellent  humor ;  and  as  he  lay  in  a 
chair,  with  his  great  frame  stretched  out,  he  poured  forth  a 
continual  stream  of  quaint  and  odd  suggestions,  happy  rep- 
artees, and  occasional  sharp  sayings,  that  sometimes  hit  one 
or  other  of  his  companions  a  little  severely.  For  instance, 
when  I  entered,  a  young  man,  elaborately  dressed  and  scented, 
was  railing  against  women,  quoting  ancient  authorities  to  prove 
that  women  were  regarded  as  of  the  brute  creation,  and  finally 
declaring  that  he  believed  them  to  be  a  superior  species  of 
monkey.  Heatherleigh  was  irritated,  I  could  see;  and  no 
sooner  had  the  philosopher  advanced  this  opinion  of  his,  than 
Heatherleigh,  with  a  sharp  glance,  said — 

"That  is  why  you  don't  marry,  I  suppose — fearing  the  ties 
of  consanguinity." 

Now  there  was  a  good  deal  more  brutality  than  wit  about 
this  remark ;  but  I  constantly  observed  that,  on  this  one  sub- 
ject of  woman,  Heatherleigh  never  would  suffer  in  his  presence 
the  little  affections  of  cynicism  which  are  common  in  ordinary 
talk.  On  any  other  topic  it  was  absolutely  impossible  to  stir 
him  into  anything  like  a  temper.  If  you  flatly  contradicted 
every  position  he  took  up,  and  went  dead  against  his  most 
favorite  opinions,  he  would  lie  with  his  head  up  in  the  air,  and 
a  quiet  smile  on  his  face,  as  if  he  were  balancing  your  theory 
alongside  his  own  on  the  point  of  his  nose.  He  would  play 
with  your  opinion  as  he  played  with  his  own,  and  would  put 
it  into  comical  lights  with  an  easy  grace  and  wit  which  was 
irresistible,  because  they  were  the  offspring  of  a  fine  fancy 
and  a  tender  disposition.  You  might  tickle  him  all  over, 
and  he  would  only  smile  ;  but  when  you  spoke  sneeringly  of 
women  (as  many  of  his  bachelor  artist  acquaintances  were 
inclined  to  do)  you  pricked  his  eye,  and  then  he  would  spring 
up  and  deal  you  a  blow  with  the  utmost  savagery  of  which 
he  was  capable. 

I  wanted  to  go  home  ;  but  a  message  came  at  this  moment 
to  the  effect  that  supper  was  ready.  Heatherleigh  insisted 


Till-:  .KSTIIKTIC  GROTTO.  55 

on  my  staying ;  because,  he  said,  Bonnie  Lesley  had  com- 
plained  to  \\\\\\  that  I  had  run  away  from  her,  and  because 
she  expected  me  to  take  her  in  to  supper. 

"  Is  there  anything  particularly  laughable  in  that  ?  "  I  asked, 
seeing  that  there  was  a  curious  smile  on  his  face. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  men  like  to  see  other  men  innocent  and 
gullible,  for  it  flatters  their  own  astuteness.  Of  course,  too, 
it  multiplies  their  chances  of  existence.  But  you  are  so  very, 
very  believing  and  simple,  Ted,  that  you  are  a  positive  wonder. 
The  Midianitish  woman  has  already  captured  you,  merely  by 
staring  at  you." 

I  was  very  vexed  to  find  myself  incapable  of  replying  to  his 
raillery ;  but  it  was  on  Miss  Lesley's  account  that  I  was  vexed. 
It  seemed  to  me  unfair  that  Heatherleigh  should,  even  in  joke, 
talk  of  Bonnie  Lesley  as  of  some  interested  and  deceitful 
woman,  and  I.  could  not  help  recalling  my  suspicion  that 
something  underlay  this  fun — that  Heatherleigh  had  some 
cause  to  feel  spiteful  against  her,  and  was  thus  revenging 
himself  in  a  petty  and  unworthy  way.  Nor  \vas  this  impres- 
sion lessened  by  some  chance  remarks  made  by  Miss  Lesley 
herself,  as  I  sat  next  her  at  supper. 

"I  don't  believe,"  she  said,  "that  artists  have  souls.  I 
believe  that  artists  and  actors  ancl  authors — all  the  people 
who  have  to  live  by  art  of  any  kind — sell  their  soul  to  the 
public,  and  leave  none  of  it  for  home  use.  They  can  assume 
various  characters,  and  pretend  to  have  a  regard  for  this  or 
that,  but  it  is  only  a  pretence.  They  are  empty  inside.  They 
have  neither  a  soul  nor  a  heart — they  have  sold  both  to  the 
public,  and  live  upon  the  result.  Oh  !  I  know  it." 

"Do  you  mean — ?  " 

"  Look  at  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  she  continued.  "  He  could 
act  being  in  love  with  any  woman,  and  she  might  believe  him, 
ancl  yet  I  am  certain  that  his  profession  has  taken  it  out  of 
his  power  to  be  seriously  and  honestly  affectionate  towards 
anybody  in  the  world." 

"You  are  quite  mistaken,  then,"  I  said.  "You  will  meet 
with  very  few  men  who  are  as  generous  and  disinterested  and 
affectionate  as  Heatherleigh." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she  replied,  with 
that  air  of  pretty  wonder  which  was  so  irritating,  for  it  left 
you  in  doubt  as  to  whether  she  understood  or  believed  or 
cared  for  what  you  had  been  saying. 

But  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  knew,  or  fancied  she  knew, 
something  more  of  Heatherleigh  than  she  chose  to  express, 


56  KILMENY. 

and  I  hoped  that  my  true  and  honest  friend  had  not  suffered 
by  some  mischance  in  her  esitmation.  Indeed,  I  ventured 
to  press  my  opinion  on  the  point,  for  it  seemed  to  me  almost 
painful  that  these  two,  who  had  so  much  that  was  beautiful 
and  lovable  about  them,  should  be  separated  by  some  misun- 
derstanding. She  listened  to  all  I  had  to  say,  and  appeared 
deeply  interested.  Nor  had  I  any  desire  to  cut  short  my 
speech,  for  it  was  an  indescribable  pleasure  to  me  to  watch 
everything  I  said  reflected  sympathetically  in  the  large  and 
expressive  eyes.  The  various  phases  of  attention  and  depre- 
cation and  astonishment  that  passed  over  them  were  so  singu- 
larly beautiful.  But  a  quiet  astonishment  was  their  normal 
expression,  and  it  was  so  far  normal  that  it  seemed  to  answer 
what  you  were  saying,  when  she  herself  was  thinking  of 
something  else.  She  appeared  to  have  some  curiosity  to 
hear  what  you  said,  and  every  new  sentence  seemed  to  convey 
another  pretty  little  surprise  to  her,  but  in  time  you  began  to 
see  that  all  your  efforts  to  interest  her  only  awoke  the  same 
result.  It  was  not  that  she  was  preoccupied  or  absent.  But 
she  seemed  so  contented  with  herself  (as  surely  as  she  had  a 
right  to  be),  that  she  cared  only  for  the  pleasure  of  sitting 
still,  and  being  tickled  by  small  novelties  of  information.  I 
grew  to  wonder  whether,  if  a  lightning-bolt  shot  past  her, 
and  split  the  mantel-piece  beyond,  she  would  do  more  than 
turn  the  big,  child-like  eyes  upon  the  place,  and  regard  it  with 
a  bright  and  pleased  curiosity. 

On  our  way  home  Heatherleigh  did  not  choose  to  speak 
about  Miss  Lesley,  and  I  was  rather  glad  of  it.  But  he  ques- 
tioned me  about  Hester  Burnham,  and  I  told  him  minutely 
and  accurately  everything  that  had  occurred. 

"  You  are  "a  perpetual  conundrum  to  me,"  he  said ;  "  I 
can't  make  you  out.  I  never  saw  such  exaggerated  self-depre- 
ciation joined  to  such  insufferable  pride." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SOME   OLD    FRIENDS. 


I  FEAR  it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  convey  to  the  reader 
any  sense  of  my  great  enjoyment  when  it  first  began  to  dawn 
upon  me  that  I  was  really  of  use  to  Heatherleigh.  Those 
who  have  been  delicately  brought  up,  with  wide  possibilities 
around  them,  with  ease  in  money  matters,  and  innumerable 


SOME  OLD  1'RIEXDS.  57 

avenues  of  pleasurable  activity  lying  in  front  of  them,  cannot 
understand  how  hard  and  gloomy  and  dismal  was  the  pail 
which  had  hung  over  my  life,  and  the  presence  of  which  had 
always  seemed  to  be  inevitable.  And  now  there  was  a  rent 
overhead,  and  a  stirring  of  free  wind  ;  and  a  ray  of  Heaven's 
own  sunlight  fell  upon  me,  and  found  me  without  words  to 
express  my  gratitude. 

Heatherleigh,  in  his  lazy  way,  used  to  make  fun  of  me  (in 
order  to  protect  himself)  whenever  I  ventured  to  hint  of  the 
debt  I  owed  him.  Generous  to  a  fault,  he  shrank  with  an 
exceeding  sensitiveness  from  being  considered  generous,  and 
you  could  not  have  made  him  more  uncomfortable  than  by 
showing  him  what  you  thought  of  his  goodness.  So  I  nursed 
my  great  debt  towards  him  in  my  heart ;  and  wondered  if  ever 
I  should  have  the  chance  of  revealing  my  respect  and  admi- 
ration and  affection  for  this  good  man.  I  used  to  think  that 
if  he  and  I  were  to  love  the  same  woman,  and  she  loved  me, 
I  should  leave  her,  for  his  sake. 

"  What  an  irritating  fellow  you  are  ! "  he  said  to  me,  one 
day,  when  I  was  beseeching  him  to  go  on  with  some  work, 
that  I  might  get  something  to  do.  "Why  can't  you  take  life 
easily  ?  Nobody  will  thank  you — certainly  not  I — for  worrying 
yourself  to  death." 

"  But  I  cannot  help  it,"  I  said.  "  Weasel  put  the  notion 
into  my  blood — and  it  will  always  remain  in  it — that  I  ought 
never  to  be  a  moment  idle  in  working-hours.  I  can't  help  it. 
I  feel  wretched  unless  when  I  am  working ;  and  if  I  sit  talk- 
ing to  you  I  have  an  uneasy  feeling  that  some  one  may  open 
the  door,  glide  in  on  slippers,  and  scowl  and  scold.  I  never 
enjoy  taking  a  walk  in  the  daytime — I  expect  to  see  some  one 
somewhere  who  will  ask  me  why  I  am  doing  nothing  while  all 
men  are  working." 

"You  are  like  some  unfortunate  wretch  who  has  been  all 
his  life  in  prison,  and  who  sickens  and  dies  in  free  air  for 
want  of  his  ordinary  employment  of  scraping  the  wall  with 
his  finger-nail." 

"  This  morning,  coming  down  here  at  half-past  ten,  I  saw 
Weasel  in  the  street,  and  I  half  expected  him  to  come  up  and 
ask  why  the  devil  I  was  so  late,  and  if  I  wasn't  ashamed  to 
be  cheating  my  master.  Just  now,  I'd  much  rather  work  than 
sit  talking  like  this." 

"  Confound  you,  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  pander  to 
your  diseased  appetite  ?  If  you  must  work,  work  at  home, 
and  don't  bother  me." 

"  I  have  been  working  at  home." 


58  KILMENY. 

Then  I  told  him  all  about  it.  I  had  been  trying  a  picture 
on  my  own  account  for  some  months.  I  began  it  in  the  early 
part  of  the  year,  and,  as  the  daylight  widened,  I  rose  earlier 
and  earlier,  until  now  I  got  between  five  and  six  hours  at  it 
every  morning  before  I  hurriedly  swallowed  my  breakfast. 
I  used  to  get  up  at  four,  paint  until  ten,  and  then  eat  some- 
thing or  other  and  be  down  at  Heatherleigh's  studio  by  half- 
past.  There  were  many  reasons  why  I  did  not  wish  Heath- 
erleigh  to  know  about  my  laboring  with  this  picture,  chief  of 
them  being  that  I  did  not  wish  him  to  see  it  until  it  was  in 
some  sort  presentable  ;  although,  had  I  shown  it  to  him,  I 
might  have  spared  myself  an  immense  deal  of  toil  and  vexa- 
tion. I  was  working  without  tools,  to  begin  with.  I  had  to 
place  one  chair  on  the  top  of  another  to  form  an  easel ;  then 
the  canvas  was  tied  to  the  back  of  the  upper  chair  by  a  bit 
of  string,  while  I  sat  on  a  stool.  The  colors  I  had  bought 
were  of  the  cheapest  kind ;  but  I  had  acquired  under  Heath- 
crleigh  considerable  experience  in  heightening  and  terhper- 
ing  dull  or  crude  pigments.  Of  course,  I  had  no  models  ; 
but  the  recollection  of  form  was  always  easy  to  me.  And 
yet  the  amount  of  pain,  physical  and  mental,  that  the  inces- 
sant struggle  with  my  own  ignorance  and  inexperience  gave 
me,  was  indescribable.  Again  and  again  I  painted  portions 
over — here  rubbing  out  the  damp  work  of  the  previous  day, 
there  coating  over  what  was  too  dry  for  that  operation.  It  is 
conceivable  that  the  canvas  got  into  a  deplorable  state  ;  and 
at  last  I  drove  a  knife  straight  through  it.  It  was  my  second 
effort  at  the  same  picture  which  was  on  the  stocks  when 
Heatherleigh  spoke  ;  and  of  it,  such  as  it  was,  more  may  be 
said  hereafter. 

In  the  mean  time  Heatherleigh  besought  me  to  moderate 
the  vehemence  of  my  labor.  He  professed  himself  unable 
even  to  supply  sketches  for  me  to  fill  up.  He  was  growing 
too  rich,  he  said — he  should  have  to  die  and  leave  his  wealth 
to  the  hospitals.  More  than  one  dealer  owed  him  money — 
an  unprecedented  thing — which  he  had  never  asked  for. 
And  with  that  he  suddenly  slapped  his  knee. 

"  Ted,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  grand  idea.  Let's  both  put  on 
a  spurt  for  the  next  month  or  five  weeks.  The  Lewisons  are 
going  down  to  Brighton  in  June  ;  and  you  and  I  will  go  too — 
for  a  grand  holiday  of  magnificent  laziness.  We  can  make 
up  by  that  time  £200,  I  know ;  and  we  will  go  fair  halves  in 
it.  Now  don't  blush  like  a  school-girl,  whether  you  are  vexed 
or  pleased — you  do  three  fourths  of  the  work,  and  you  ought 
at  least  to  have  half  the  money.  Or  we  will  have  a  common 


SOME  OLD  l-'R/KXDS.  59 

stock,  if  you  like  it  better.  Is  it  a  bargain — five  weeks'  hard 
work,  and  then  a  month  at  the  sea  ?  " 

The  sea  !  I  heard  the  sound  of  waves  then,  as  clearly 
as  I  can  hear  them  now,  down  on  the  beach  there.  As 
clearly  as  I  behold  it  now,  from  this  window,  I  looked  through 
the  mist  that  was  before  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  the  great,  breezy, 
green  plain  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  joyous  white  laugh  of  its 
running  waves. 

Then  I  told  Heatherleigh  how  there  was  not  even  a  river 
down  in  the  Missenden  valley  in  which  I  had  been  brought 
up  ;  how  the  farthest  views  you  could  get  from  the  chalk  hills 
only  revealed  extensions  of  a  great  cultivated  plain  ;  how  the 
sea  and  all  its  strange  associations — so  different  from  those 
of  the  land,  so  beautiful  and  wild  and  terrible — produced  a 
sort  of  delirium  in  me  ;  and  how  even  the  remembrance  of  it 
was  to  me  full  of  the  sadness  which  is  somehow  interwoven 
with  the  beauty  of  all  beautiful  things. 

We  talked  of  Brighton  then,  and  of  the  sea,  and  of  what 
was  to  be  done  there.  Miss  Lesley  was  certain  to  be  with 
the  Lewisons.  Perhaps  the  Burnhams  would  be  down. 

"  I  know  several  other  people,"  said  Heatherleigh  ;  "  they 
are  all  nice  sort  of  people,  who  have  the  courage  to  leave  the 
London  season  at  its  height,  and  catch  the  flush  of  the  year 
at  the  sea-side." 

The  very  next  day  I  had  to  go  down  Holborn  ;  and  I  met 
Big  Dick  and  the  sleepy-headed  Kent,  who  were  on  their  way 
to  their  dinner.  I  went  up  and  spoke  to  them,  and  I  felt 
like  an  impostor  with  them.  Kent  was  very  respectful,  and 
I  hated  him  for  it.  Big  Dick  was  more  natural,  and  talked 
pretty  much  in  his  usual  fashion  ;  but  of  course  I  had  grown 
a  good  deal  older  since  I  was  his  apprentice,  and  there  was  a 
difference  in  his  manner  too. 

"  Let's  go  into  this  doorway,"  said  Kent,  glancing  at  my 
fine  suit  of  gray  clothes  and  my  hat.  (I  was  on  a  diplomatic 
errand  for  Heatherleigh,  and  had  got  out  of  the  ordinary 
slouching  studio-costume.)  "You  won't  care  to  be  seen  with 
the  likes  of  us." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  said,  rather  angrily,  and  kept  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  pavement. 

I  was  debating  in  my  own  mind  how  I  could  offer  them 
something  to  drink  without  appearing  to  be  ostentatious  (for 
I  knew  they  were  rather  sensitive  on  that  matter  of  treating, 
which  is  a  point  of  honor  among  working-men),  when  Big 
Dick,  having  more  moral  courage  than  I,  proposed  (and  I  was 
heartily  glad)  that  he  should  stand  something.  The  doorway 


bo  KILMENY. 

which  Kent  wished  to  shelter  him  led  into  a  chop-house,  in 
which  there  was  also  a  bar ;  so  as  we  were  going  in,  I  said — 

"  What  do  you  say  to  our  all  dining  here,  instead  of  your 
going  home  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  both  of  them ;  and  so  we  went  in  and 
sat  down. 

They  asked  me  to  order  the  dinner,  and  I  did  :  a  very  good 
dinner — mutton-chops,  vegetables,  gooseberry  pie  and  bottled 
stout. 

"  Well,  I'm  d— d  glad  to  see  you,  Ted,"  said  Big  Dick, 
shaking  my  hand  again  with  his  great  horny  fist,  "  only  I  sup- 
pose we  must  call  you  Mr.  Ives,  eh  ?  " 

"  You  may  if  you  like,  Mr.  Richard  Primer,"  said  I — at 
which  profound  joke  Kent  laughed  consumedly. 

"  And  what  a  change  there  is  in  you !  "  said  Dick.  "Why, 
you  were  a  poor  little  devil  when  I  knew  you — all  eyes,  you 
know,  and  looking  as  if  you  was  afraid  everybody  wanted  to 
eat  you.  And  now  you've  grown  tall  and  straight,  and  the 
worst  of  you  I  can  say  is  as  you  look  too  like  a  b French- 
man or  Italian.  But  that  comes  through  your  way  of  life  now, 
I  dare  say." 

Kent  had  been  looking  at  me  steadily  for  some  time  with 
a  sort  of  wonder  in  his  sleepy  eyes.  At  last  he  said,  cau- 
tiously and  with  nervous  politeness — 

"  I  hope  we're  not  detaining  of  you." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,  Kent,"  I  said,  nettled 
beyond  endurance ;  and  this  woke  him  up  somewhat,  for  by 
and  by  he  said,  when  the  stout  had  warmed  him  a  little — 

"  You'll  be  marrying  presently,  and  then  there'll  be  Mrs. 
Ives,  as  well  as  Mr.  Ives,  and  lots  of  little  Iveses." 

With  that  Kent  stretched  his  gray  eyes  to  their  uttermost, 
endeavoring  to  control  his  merriment ;  and  then  half  shut 
them  again,  abandoned  himself  to  a  roar  of  laughter  over  his 
wit. 

"  But  I've  good  news  for  you  Ted,"  said  Dick,  laying  down 
his  tumbler.  "There's  an  awful  revolution  round  there  at 
Weasel's.  Weasel  used  to  be  a  great  man  to  you — I  know 
you  was  frightened  of  him.  Ha  !  you  should  see  Weasel  now. 
He's  married — married  a  big,  strapping  woman  as  warms  him, 
I  can  tell  ye,  when  he  gets  into  a  bad  temper.  There's  cantata 
kerousness  '11  do  for  her.  She  can  give  him  a  hot  un  when 
she  likes  ;  and  the  scolclin's  all  the  other  way  now.  Of 
course  he's  the  same  to  us — mayhap  he  revenges  hisself  on 
us  for  what  he  gets  from  her ;  but  doesn't  he  get  it !  She 
comes  down  to  the  shop  and  lays  about  her  like  a  good  un  ; 


SOME  OLD  FXIENDS.  fir 

and  \\Vnsrl,  with  his  whitcy-brown  face,  stands  and  biles  his 
lips,  and  then  drives  the  things  about  when  she's  gone.  Lord 
bless  ye  !  he  can't  call  his  soul  his  own." 

"  He  never  could,"  I  said.  "  If  he  has  one,  he  must  have 
borrowed  or  stolen  it." 

Well,  I  don't  see  anything  particularly  brilliant  in  that 
remark  ;  but  its  effect  upon  Kent  was  alarming.  He  had 
been  drinking  a  good  deal  of  bottled  stout ;  and  what  I  said 
about  Weasel's  soul  sent  him  into  a  prodigious  fit  of  laughter, 
with  which  doubtless  the  beer  had  something  to  do.  He 
laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  his  face  ;  and  then  something 
stuck  in  his  throat,  and  he  gasped  and  laughed  and  coughed 
until  he  was  blood-red.  Seeing  that  he  was  in  the  same 
good -humor  when  he  recovered,  I  proposed  that  we  should 
have  a  pint  bottle  of  old  port  with  our  cheese,  to  which  they 
agreed;  and  before  the  dinner  was  over  we  had  entirely 
established  our  ancient  relations. 

"  I'm  proud  of  ye,  Ted,"  said  Kent,  whose  lazy  gray  eyes 
had  never  been  so  excited  for  years,  "  and  I  say  as  you  are 
a  credit  to  the  shop  that  brought  you  up.  And  we'll  dance 
at  your  wedding." 

Then  came  the  question  of  paying.  I  said,  carelessly,  that 
I  should  much  prefer  to  pay  for  the  whole  ;  but  I  saw  by 
Dick's  face  that  he  was  a  little  hurt  by  the  proposal,  and  he 
dissented  from  it  in  rather  a  stiff  and  formal  way. 

"  Come,  then,"  I  said,  "  let's  toss  for  it." 

Now  there  is  a  favorite  trick  among  the  Missenden  boys 
(and  probably  among  boys  elsewhere)  by  which  you  can  toss 
up  a  penny,  put  it  between  your  hands,  feel  with  your  thumb 
whether  tail  or  head  is  uppermost,  and  change  the  coin 
according  to  what  your  opponent  calls.  I  was  never  very 
dexterous  at  this  piece  of  juvenile  legerdemain ;  but  I  suc- 
ceeded in  convincing  both  Big  Dick  and  Kent  that  I  had 
lost  both  times,  and  so  they  let  me  pay  the  small  bill.  It 
was  a  very  pleasant  dinner,  that  in  the  Holborn  chop-house ; 
I  have  since  then  risen  from  many  a  grander  banquet  hav- 
ing enjoyed  myself  considerably  less.  When  we  parted,  I 
believe  Kent  was  in  such  good  spirits  that,  at  my  request,  he 
would  have  gone  straight  into  the  shop  and  challenged 
Weasel  to  a  hand-to-hand  fight. 

However,  to  return  to  this  projected  trip  to  the  sea.  As  I 
was  going  home  that  eveing  I  met  Polly  Whistler;  she  turned 
and  walked  up  Hampstead  Road  with  me,  and  I  told  her 
what  Heatherleigh  and  I  proposed  to  do.  Polly's  face  grew 


62  KILMENY. 

a  trifle  thoughtful  for  a  moment ;  and  then  she  said,  with 
what  seemed  to  me  a  rather  affected  carelessness — 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Heatherleigh  expects  to  meet  people  he 
knows  down  there — the  Lewisons,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  does." 

"  And  that  girl.  Miss  Lesley  ?  " 

Polly  was  looking  hard  at  the  ground. 

"  Yes,  I  think  she  will  be  there  also." 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Heatherleigh  means  to  marry  her  ?  " 

"  Marry  her !  "  I  said,  in  astonishment,  and — shall  I  con- 
fess it  ? — with  a  sharp  touch  of  pain. 

"  Why  not  ? "  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  was  peculiarly 
unlike  her  ordinary  frank  smile. 

"  Don't  you  know  the  manner  in  which  he  always  talks  of 
her  ?  "  I  asked — "  quite  unfairly,  I  know ;  but  still  ha  does 
it." 

"  That  is  only  his  way,"  she  said.  "  He  never  likes  you 
to  know  that  he  is  fond  of  anything  or  anybody,  and  makes 
fun  over  it  in  order  to  hide  himself.  If  he  were  dreadfully 
in  love,  and  going  to  be  married  to-morrow  morning,  he 
would  spend  to-night  in  satirizing  us  poor  women-folks  as 
hard  as  he  could." 

"  Then  he  is  not  dreadfully  in  love,  for  he  never  attempts 
anything  of  the  kind." 

"  But  you  say  he  talks  in  that  way  about  Miss  Lesley. 
Now,  what  sort  of  a  girl  is  she  ?  " 

So,  as  we  went  on,  I  told  her  all  I  knew  of  Bonnie  Lesley, 
and  of  her  fine  and  handsome  appearance,  her  child-like  and 
winning  ways,  and  her  kindness  to  myself.  Polly  listened 
very  attentively,  and  put  two  or  three  questions  the  drift  of 
which  I  could  not  quite  catch.  Then  she  grew  a  little  more 
cheerful. 

"  You  are  likely  to  be  dreadfully  spoiled  by  women,  Ted," 
she  remarked. 

"  Why  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  There's  something  about  your  manner — 
something  desperately  direct  and  honest — that  provokes  one's 
confidence.  Don't  you  remember  I  talked  to  you  immedi- 
ately after  I  saw  you  just  as  I  would  talk  to  you  now  ?  And 
so  this  Miss  Lesley  has  been  making  great  friends  with  you 
Wrhat  does  she  say  about  Mr.  Heatherleigh  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  think  there  is  some  misunderstanding  between 
them.  He  is  constantly  gibing  at  her,  and  making  epigrams 
about  her ;  and  she  is  very  cautious  in  mentioning  him  at 
all." 


SOME  OLD  I-RIKXDS.  (^ 

"  I'm  glad  you  and  he  get  so  pleasant  a  subject  to  talk 
about  all  day.  "  It  must  be  such  a  variety  from  the  constant 
talking  shop  that  you  men  are  fond  of.  We  women  never 
get  a  chance  of  talking  shop — unless  when  we  talk  about 
babies." 

Polly  said  this  in  the  most  artless  manner,  but  in  a  second 
she  had  caught  herself  up,  crimsoned  deeply,  and  then  burst 
out  laughing.  To  hide  her  confusion,  she  stooped  and  picked 
up  a  pin  that  happened  to  be  lying  on  the  pavement. 

"  There,"  she  said,  showing  me  the  pin  (though  there  was 
still  a  laugh  lurking  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth),  "  how 
many  times  have  I  laid  the  foundation  for  a  fortune  ?  You 
know  the  stories  of  the  industrious  young  men  who  picked 
up  a  pin,  and  then  heaps  of  money  came  to  them  through 
it.  But  here  have  I  been  picking  up  pins  for  years  in  the 
expectation  of  getting  only  a  small  competency,  and  it  never 
comes.  What  are  you  laughing  at  ? " 

"  At  your  ill-luck  in  never  getting  a  fortune,"  I  said,  boldly ; 
wherewith  she  laughed  too. 

Having  once  got  into  these  good  spirits,  she  rattled  on 
like  a  mad  thing.  She  took  my  arm,  and  we  strolled  along 
carelessly  towards  Hampstead,  she  all  the  while  telling  stories, 
and  making  the  oddest  remarks  about  the  people  passing,  and 
laughing  in  her  quiet  and  discreet  fashion.  First  she  began 
about  a  lady  in  her  neighborhood,  a  widow,  who  was  famous 
for  the  number  of  her  suitors,  and  the  rapidity  with  which 
they  were  changed.  She  described  the  various  lovers,  and  their 
mode  of  making  love  ;  although  I  am  positive  she  never  was 
inside  the  house,  nor  heard  one  of  them  speak. 

"  The  one  she  has  got  just  now,"  continued  Polly,  "  is  the 
smallest  man,  I  believe,  in  the  world — so  small  and  thin  and 
pale.  I  used  to  call  him  the  widow's  mite  ;  and  she  heard  of 
it,  and  said  she  would  teach  me  better  manners  if  she  laid 
her  hands  on  me." 

This  led  up  to  another  experience  of  Polly's.  She  had 
been  going  on  a  bitterly  cold  winter  night  to  visit  some  one 
at  Stamford  Hill ;  and  after  the  omnibus  was  packed,  a  rather 
good-looking  young  girl  appeared  at  the  door  and  looked  in. 

"  Come  in,"  said  an  elderly  gentleman, — "  come  in,  my 
girl,  and  you  can  sit  on  my  knee  till  you  get  out." 

Rather  than  wait  half  an  hour  in  the  cold,  the  girl,  blushing 
a  little,  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  was  subjected  to  a  good  deal 
of  quiet  and  harmless  joking  by  the  passengers,  who  were 
going  home  to  their  suburban  houses,  and  all  of  whom  knew 
the  old  gentleman  who  was  so  complaisant  to  the  new-comer. 


64  K1LMEXY. 

He  himself  was  very  good-natured  and  jocular,  and  made 
some  remote  hints  about  his  wishing  that  he  was  not  mar- 
ried. 

"  Then,"  said  Polly,  "  the  old  gentleman  asked  her  where 
she  meant  to  get  out.  *  Clarence  Lodge,'  she  says.  *  Why,' 
he  says,  '  that's  my  house  ! '  '  Are  you  Mr.  Sanclemann  ? ' 
she  asks.  *  Yes,'  he  says,  beginning  to  look  uncomfortable. 
'Then  I'm  your  new  servant,  sir,'  she  says,  and  you  may  im- 
agine how  all  the  gentlemen  roared.  But  did  you  ever  notice, 
Ted,  that  in  getting  into  a  'bus,  or  anywhere,  women  are  far 
less  courteous  to  each  other  than  men  are  to  each  other  ? 
Men  seem  to  have  some  idea  of  fairness,  and  let  the  first- 
comers  go  in ;  but  women  will  squeeze  and  elbow  and  push 
themselves  foremost  in  defiance  of  justice.  Of  course  one 
of  the  fine  ladies  you  visit  wouldn't  do  that.  She  would  let 
anybody  who  had  the  vulgarity  to  take  precedence  take  it, 
and  would  only  show  her  contempt  with  the  tip  of  her  nose. 
I  am  beginning  to  think  that  all  fine  ladies  are  my  natural 
enemies." 

With  this  sort  of  nonsense  (which  gained  not  a  little  from 
Polly's  bright  eyes  and  her  low,  delightful  laugh)  an  hour  or 
two  passed  very  pleasantly,  and  it  was  getting  towards  dusk 
when  we  came  down  Hampstead  Road  again.  I  thought 
there  was  something  more  in  that  vague  dislike  to  fine  ladies 
than  lay  on  the  surface  of  her  foolish  talk,  and  I  noticed  that 
Polly  more  than  once  turned  the  conversation  towards 
Bonnie  Lesley.  She  was  careful  about  what  she  said,  but 
indirectly  she  uttered  some  rather  cutting  speeches  about 
this  poor  girl,  who  seemed  to  be  more  suspected  the  less  she 
was  known.  Polly  had  not  even  seen  her.  And,  having 
cogitated  over  the  matter,  I,  in  my  wisdom,  evolved  these 
propositions,  to  account  for  the  mystery. 

1.  Heatherleigh  has  been,  and  perhaps  is,  in  love  with  Miss 
Lesley. 

2.  She  has  refused  him,  and  promised  to  keep  the  secret. 

3.  He  is  vexed,  and  makes  epigrams  about  her  fickleness, 
simply  because  he  happened  to  be  in  love,  and  she  wasn't. 

4.  Polly  is  in  love  with  Heatherleigh,  and,  without  having 
seen   her,  is   jealous   of   Bonnie   Lesley,    and   consequently 
spiteful. 

There  were  some  few  points  which  did  not  seem  to  me  to 
square  with  this  theory,  but  it  was  the  best  guess  I  could 
make  at  the  position. 


f>5 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
POLLY'S  MOTHER. 

I  THREW  myself  into  that  five  weeks'  work  with  all  the 
energy  of  which  I  was  capable.  Look  at  the  splendid  prize 
that  was  to  recompense  our  labor.  To  Heatherleigh  a  month 
at  the  sea-side  was  nothing  ;  to  me  it  was  a  treasure  per- 
petual, inexhaustible.  While  I  worked  I  dreamed  of  it. 
That  gaunt  and  dusty  chamber  in  Granby  Street  seemed  to 
smell  of  sea-weed,  and  the  stillness  of  it  was  like  the  mur- 
mur of  a  shell.  People  who  have  repeatedly  spent  a  month 
at  the  sea-side  know  how  short  a  period  it  is,  but  I  looked 
forward  with  a  kind  of  wonder  to  the  idea  of  rising  morning 
after  morning,  and  still  finding  one's  self  confronted  by  the 
great  width  of  water.  I  liked  the  labor,  and  I  liked  what 
was  coming  after  it.  At  present,  the  excitement  and  the  in- 
terest of  hard  work  ;  in  the  future,  a  blaze  of  sunlight,  and 
tingling  breezes,  and  the  glories  of  the  sea. 

And  it  was  during  this  period,  too,  that  I  first  definitely  saw 
tli  at  my  work  was  of  some  value  to  my  benefactor  and  friend. 
Not  only  did  I  do  the  greater  portion  of  most  of  the  pictures, 
but  I  goaded  him  into  what  work  he  did  undertake.  But  for 
me,  I  think  the  scheme  would  have  been  abandoned.  Many 
a  time  I  went  up  in  the  morning,  and  found  him  lounging  in 
his  easy-chair,  absorbed  in  one  of  his  favorite  treatises. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  on  with  that  picture  to-day,"  he 
would  say  ;  "  what  is  the  use  of  bothering  ?  Let  us  go  down 
to  Rotten  Row,  and  stare  at  the  people." 

Then  I  would  remonstrate,  and  remind  him  of  our  com- 
pact. 

"  You  are  the  most  uncompromising,  persistent,  stiff-necked 
brute  I  ever  met.  What  is  the  use  of  life,  if  you  must  subject 
yourself  to  all  sorts  of  needless  martyrdoms  ?  You  will 
worry  yourself  now,  and,  when  you  find  yourself  at  Brighton 
with  nothing  to  do,  idleness  will  drive  you  mad." 

"  Idleness  hasn't  driven  somebody  else  mad  whom  I  know,'* 
I  said. 

"  You  haven't  enough  of  reflection  in  you  to  know  that  the 
intentional  idleness  you  propose  to  have  at  Brighton  would 
be  a  nuisance,  while  the  chance  idleness  you  take  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  whim  is  always  charming.  So  soon  as  a  man  is 


66  KILMENY. 

over-conscious  that  he  is  doing  something,  the  enjoyment  of 
it  flies.  I  have  a  notion  that  you  could  make  one  of  those 
mad  harlequin-dancers  miserable  by  getting  him  to  read  a 
treatise  on  anatomy.  Indeed  you  would  destroy  his  chances 
of  living.  Show  him  all  the  delicate  mechanism  of  the  bones 
and  sinews,  and  he  could  never  afterwards  fling  his  limbs  into 
contorted  forms  without  a  vague  fear,  which  would  render 
the  performance  a  failure." 

Now,  if  I  had  let  him  go  on,  there  would  have  been  no 
more  work  that  day.  He  would  start  some  such  subject,  and 
pursue  it  through  all  its  phases,  comic  and  serious  and  prac- 
tical, with  his  hands  crossed  on  the  crown  of  his  head,  and 
his  legs  stretched  out  and  crossed  in  front  of  him.  As  I  have 
said,  he  had  no  sort  of  interest  in  painting  as  painting.  To 
him  it  was  merely  a  profession  which  yielded  him  an  easy  life, 
plenty  of  leisure  in  which  to  indulge  his  habit  of  indolent 
day-dreaming  and  listless  speculation,  and  as  much  money  as 
kept  him  comfortably,  or  allowed  him  to  be  generous  when 
he  wished. 

Something  else  in  his  book  had  struck  him ;  and  he  was 
anxious  to  explain  to  me  how  the  writer  was  wrong  in  assum- 
ing that  civilization  would  in  time  work  frightful  mischief  by 
developing  the.  cerebrum  instead  of  the  cerebellum. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  I  said,  "but—" 

"  It  is  absurd,"  he  persisted.  "  The  physical  conditions  of 
life  will  prevent  it.  So  long  as  men  have  got  to  contend  with 
cold  and  rain,  and  the  toil  and  exposure  of  agricultural  work, 
the  race  will  never  so  exclusively  cultivate  its  intellectual 
powers  as  to  improve  itself  off  the  earth.  It  seems  to  me — 

With  that  I  sat  down  at  his  easel  (not  mine)  and  began 
working  at  the  picture.  But  I  had  been  merely  a  dummy 
listener ;  he  continued  his  meditations  all  the  same,  and  it 
was  only  when  I  began  to  meddle  with  the  face  of  his  heroine 
(a  very  good  likeness  of  Polly)  that  he  started  up,  and  took 
his  palette  and  brushes  in  hand. 

"  After  we  get  down  to  the  sea-side,"  I  said,  "  I  will  lie  on 
the  beach  if  you  like  for  hours,  and  listen  to  everything  you 
have  to  say  about  harlequins  or  priests  or  philosophers." 

"  You  have  the  determination  of ,"  he  said,  naming  an 

historical  personage,  who  may  have  been  determined,  but 
who  was  notoriously  unsuccessful. 

At  length  the  time  drew  near ;  and,  although  we  had  not 
got  in  all  the  money,  it  was  worked  for  and  available. 
Heatherleigh,  having  taken  down  some  checks  to  be  cashed, 
came  back  with  a  pocketful  of  bank-notes.  He  counted  them 


POLLY'S  MOTUKK.  C>7 

out — one  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  odd — and  then  he  quietly 
told  oil  eighty  of  these  and  placed  the  money  before  me  on 
the  table. 

I  was  the  possessor  of  eighty  pounds  in  hard  cash — it  was 
my  own,  my  very  own. 

"  Heatherleigh,"  I  said,  "let  us  have  a  walk  through  Ken- 
sington Gardens  and  around  the  Serpentine." 

'•  Why,  you  positively  love  the  Serpentine,  I  believe,  you 
abominable  Cockney.  And  you  going  to  sea  to-morrow  ! " 

Nevertheless  we  went ;  and  as  we  drew  near  the  small 
lake,  the  sun  had  set  in  the  northwest,  and  after  the  red 
light  had  quite  faded  down,  there  was  a  strange  pale  "  after- 
glow "  in  the  sky,  while  a  gathering  mist  fell  over  the  water, 
causing  the  opposite  shore  and  its  trees  to  recede  into  a  vague, 
ethereal  distance.  I  had  grown  to  love  the  Serpentine  in 
the  old  days  of  my  bondage,  when  I  used  to  steal  out  alone 
in  the  evening,  and  sit  on  the  cold  wooden  seats,  as  the  still- 
ness of  the  night  fell.  And  now,  as  we  walked  across  the 
damp  grass,  the  various  sounds  of  the  day  ceased,  and  the 
place  was  solitary  and  quiet ;  while  the  wandering  white  of 
the  fog  settled  thicker  over  the  farther  side  of  the  lake,  and 
through  it  we  saw  the  far  gas-lamps  burning  sharp  and  red. 
Then,  as  we  lingered  awhile,  a  strange  golden  moonlight 
crept  up  the  skies  and  made  the  faint  streaks  of  the  clouds 
visible  ;  while  it  touched  the  trees  also,  and  glimmered,  a 
trembling  line  of  yellow  light,  along  the  shore.  You  forgot 
that  you  were  near  a  great  city,  and  the  poor  Serpentine  be- 
came lonely,  mystic,  magical. 

Did  Heatherleigh  guess  why  I  wished  to  come  hither  ? 
Many  a  time,  in  the  old  days,  I  had  wandered  around  the 
small  lake,  empty-hearted  and  empty-pocketed.  In  all  my 
dreams,  did  I  ever  anticipate  that  within  a  year  or  two  I 
should  walk  over  that  damp  grass,  and  around  that  mystical 
shore,  my  own  master,  with  the  art  that  I  loved  as  an  amuse- 
ment now  become  the  sole  occupation  of  my  life,  with  a  fu- 
ture full  of  freedom  and  beautiful  possibilities  before  me, 
with  eighty  pounds  of  savings  clasped  tightly  in  my  pocket  ? 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? "  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  Of  the  power  that  this  money  gives  me.  Couldn't  I  live 
for  a  whole  year,  doing  anything  or  nothing,  just  as  I  liked, 
upon  it?  I  could  set  eighty  wretched  creatures  wild  with 
delight  by  giving  them  a  sovereign  apiece.  I  could  take 
fifty  pounds  of  it,  and  buy  a  small,  little  brooch,  with  curious 
stones  in  it,  and  I  could  send  it,  without  being  known — " 

"  To  whom  ?  "  said  Heatherleigh. 


68  KILMENY. 

Then  I  burst  out  laughing ;  for  I  knew  it  was  time  the 
farce  should  end. 

"  Here,"  I  said,  "  take  the  money.  I  have  no  right  to  it. 
I  wanted  to  have  the  sensation  of  having  it,  and  of  coining 
down  here  to  crow  over  the  notions  that  Weavle  used  to  give 
me." 

He  refused  to  take  it. 

"  I  won't  have  it,"  I  said,  simply  enough,  "  because  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  have  no  right  whatever  to  it." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "you  are  still  to  me  that  perpetual  conun- 
drum that  I  can't  make  out.  Where  were  you  born,  Ted  ? 
Had  you  a  father  and  mother  ?  I  believe  you  are  a  sort  of 
will-o'-the-wisp — there's  no  catching  you.  You  have  the  cour- 
age and  determination  and  self-reliance  of  half-a-dozen  men, 
and  you  have  the  sensitiveness,  and  finical,  particular,  hum- 
bugging nonsense  of  a  thousand  girls  ;  and  all  this  confusion 
of  character  you  exhibit  with  a  simplicity  which  astounds  me. 
Brought  up  as  you  have  been,  you  should  be  as  hard  as 
steel,  cautious,  keen,  avaricious — " 

But  I  need  not  follow  him  into  his  theory  about  the  man- 
ner in  which  I  had  come  to  develop  those  wonderful  qualities 
he  had  discovered.  When  he  finished,  we  were  still  walking 
around  the  Serpentine  ;  and  the  moonlight  was  now  full  and 
clear  in  the  skies. 

"  That  bodes  well  for  to-morrow,"  said  he. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  you  haven  t  taken  the  money.  If  you  like, 
I  will  accept  ten  pounds  of  it ;  and  let  the  rest  go  into  our 
general  fund  for  housekeeping  at  Brighton." 

To  this  he  agreed  ;  and  next  day  .we  proceeded  to  get  our 
things  in  readiness  for  starting.  Polly  Whistler  called  around 
in  the  forenoon ;  and  then  I  persuaded  her  to  go  out  with 
me,  and  help  me  to  purchase  with  the  ten  pounds  a  dress  for 
my  mother.  We  went  to  a  big  place  in  Tottenham  Court 
Road,  and  Polly  was  quite  grand  in  her  manner  as  she  in- 
sisted upon  seeing  pretty  nearly  everything  in  the  shop. 
At  last  she  confessed  herself  pleased  ;  and  the  parcel  was 
ordered  to  be  sent  on  by  the  Burnham  coach  to  its  destination. 

Further,  I  persuaded  Polly  to  dine  with  us,  and,  finally,  to 
come  and  see  us  off. 

"  It  is  a  heart-breaking  thing  to  part  with  you,  Ted,"  she  re- 
marked ;  "  but  we  must  teach  ourselves  to  suffer.  Besides, 
my  old  woman  is  a  little  wild  to-day ;  and  then  I  like  to  give 
her  the  house  to  herself." 

"  She  has  been  trying  to  keep  you  in  order,  Polly,"  said 
Heatherleigh,  strapping  down  his  portmanteau. 


POL LY'S  MO'l 'I IKK.  69 

"  And  she  can  keep  people  in  order,"  said  Tolly.  "  If  she 
had  been  Nebuchadnezzar's  wife,  she'd  have  made  him  pare 
his  nails  precious  smart!" 

I  could  not  help  admiring  the  good-natured  way  in 
which  the  girl  joked  about  this  affair,  which  was  certainly  no 
laughing  matter  to  her.  To  listen  to  her,  you  would  have  im- 
agined that  her  mother's  only  fault  was  a  certain  impatience 
of  people  who  did  wrong,  and  a  desire  to  have  her  own  way 
in  ordering  her  house.  Polly  said  nothing  of  the  persecution 
and  insults,  and  often  bodily  pain,  she  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  that  bad  old  woman,  whose  drunken  madness  had  long 
ago  made  her  forget  that  she  was  a  mother. 

There  was  some  commission  which  Heatherleigh  had  un- 
dertaken that  prevented  our  catching  the  afternoon  express. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  sit  in  patience,  with  our  port- 
manteaus at  our  feet,  waiting  for  the  recusant  messenger,  the 
while  Polly  chatted  and  laughed,  and  pretended  to  make  love 
to  me. 

Our  fooling  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a 
loud  voice  on  the  stairs — a  woman's  voice,  shrill,  angry,  in- 
toxicated. How  it  flashed  across  me  that  this  must  be  Pol- 
ly's mother  I  don't  know;  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  quick 
gesture  and  look  of  the  girl  when  she  heard  the  noise.  She 
instinctively  caught  my  arm,  as  if  for  protection,  while  she 
darted  a  terrified,  anxious  glance  towards  Heatherleigh.  It 
was  as  though  she  had  cried  to  me,  "  Ted,  save  me,  and  don't  let 
him  know  !  "  In  that  brief  second  the  whole  nature  of  the  girl 
was  revealed  ;  and  I  said  to  myself,  "  She  loves  him  with  her 
whole  heart." 

Instantaneous  as  was  the  warning  given,  and  dumb  as  were 
her  directions,  I  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  go  quickly 
to  the  door.  I  went  outside,  and  shut  the  door  behind  us. 
The  woman  was  on  the  stairs,  directing  the  fury  of  her  speech, 
along  with  much  gesticulation,  upon  a  maid-servant,  who, 
from  underneath,  was  protesting  against  the  strange  visitor 
going  up-stairs  unannounced.  My  appearance  on  the  scene 
turned  the  flood  of  her  wrath  upon  me. 

"  I've  got  you,  have  I  ?  I  thought  it  was  here  you'd  be 
found ;  and  it's  time  I  had  a  chance  of  speakin'  hout.  You're 
Mr.  Heatherleigh's  friend,  are  you ;  and  what  have  you  done 
with  my  daughter  ?  I  say,  what  have  you  done  with  my  poor 

§'rl,  that's  bein'  made  a  byword  of  among  a  pack  of  wolves  ? 
h,  don't  pretend  to  pacify  me — I  heard  o'  your  goins'  on 
this  morning,  and  buyin*  a  dress  for  a  respectable  girl  as  be- 
longs to  a  family  as  'zpectable  as  yours.     And  are  you  not 


70  KILMEA'Y. 

ashamed  of  yourself,  sir — my  poor  lamb  among  them  wolves? 
But  I'll  have  the  law  on  you,  I  will,  I  will,  I  will ! " 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  said ;  "  hold  your  tongue,  and  come 
down-stairs  and  tell  me  what  you  want." 

"  Is  my  daughter  in  that  room  ?  "  she  screamed,  at  the  pitch 
of  her  shrilly  voice. 

"  If  you  don't  be  quiet,  I'll  have  you  turned  out  of  the 
house,"  I  said,  and  then  added — determined  to  avert  the 
shame  of  an  exposure  from  poor  Polly — "  Is  it  money  you 
want  ?  I  will  give  it  to  you,  only  don't  make  such  a  hideous 
noise." 

"  Merciful  'eavens  !  "  she  yelled  ;  "  he  wants  to  buy  me  as 
he  has  bought  my  daughter.  Oh,  the  wretch  !  Oh,  the  vile, 
wicked,  traitorous — " 

I  caught  her  by  the  arm,  as  I  thought  she  was  going  to 
tumble  down  the  stairs. 

"Would  you  lay  hands  on  me?  You  think  you'll  buy 
me — " 

"  Why,  you  old  humbug,  I  wouldn't  give  twopence  for  a 
dozen  of  you,"  I  said,  when  I  saw  it  was  impossible  to  re- 
strain her  violence  by  persuasion. 

With  that  she  caught  me  by  the  coat,  clashed  past  me  like 
a  wild-cat,  and  entered  the  room.  I  followed  ;  and  whatever 
there  may  have  been  of  absurdity  or  comicality  in  the  old 
woman's  ravings  on  the  stair,  was  forgotten  now  in  what  I 
saw  before  me.  Polly  stood  motionless,  her  face  bent  clown 
and  quite  pale.  Her  lips  were  trembling  ;  but  that  expressed 
only  a  tithe  of  the  humiliation  and  shame  that  seemed  to 
cover  her  whole  figure.  She  had  heard  what  had  been  going 
on  outside,  and  she  stood  there  absolutely  stupefied  and 
speechless  by  the  cruel  shame  and  mortification  that  she  must 
have  long  dreaded.  Heatherleigh  stood  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  with  a  look  of  wonder  on  his  face  that  soon  gave 
way  to  indignation  and  anger.  For  the  old  woman  at  first 
confronted  her  daughter,  and  made  such  speeches  as  I  need 
not  write  down  here.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  a 
mother  mouthing  out  lies  against  the  character  of  her  daugh- 
ter, wounding  her  at  her  most  sensitive  points,  and  outraging 
even  the  bystanders'  sense  of  decency.  She  spoke  so  rapidly, 
too,  that  the  mischief  was  done  before  either  of  us  could  in- 
terfere ;  but  Heatherleigh,  with  a  quick  flush  on  his  face,  went 
forward  and  caught  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"  You  shameless  creature,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  what 
you  are  doing  ?  " 


POLL  T'.Y  MOTHER.  71 

Here  Polly,  still  looking  down,  came  forward  and  inter- 
posed between  them. 

"  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  she  is  my  mother,"  said  the  girl,  now 
crying  very  bitterly.  "Mother,  come  away." 

But  the'  infuriated  woman  drove  her  aside,  and  held  her 
ground,  while  she  confronted  us  with  an  intoxicated  stare. 

"  Good-bye,  Ted,"  said  Polly  to  me,  holding  out  her  hand. 
Then,  I  think,  she  directed  one  furtive  glance  towards  Heath- 
erleigh, and  went  away.  The  mother  remained  behind. 

"  Good-bye,"  I  had  said  to  her,  knowing  that  it  was  the 
last  time  she  would  ever  enter  that  room,  in  which  we  had 
spent  so  many  innocent  and  happy  evenings. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  have  done,  you  foolish  old  idiot  ? 
Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ?  "  said  Heatherleigh,  with 
his  face  full  of  mortification  and  anger.  "  Do  you  know  that 
you  have  tried  to  destroy  the  character  of  an  honest  and  in- 
dustrious girl,  who  has  hitherto  kept  you  and  indulged  your 
beastly  habits  ?  Do  you  know  that  you  may  have  sickened 
her  of  her  honest  life  ?  Do  you  know  what  has  happened 
within  the  last  few  minutes — that  you  have  outraged  the  feel- 
ings of  a  sensitive  girl,  whom  you  ought  to  have  protected, 
and  may  God  forgive  you  if  anything  comes  of  your  drunken 
insanity !  " 

He  snatched  his  hat,  and  hastily  went  out.  It  was  half  an 
hour  afterwards  when  he  returned.  By  that  time  the  old 
woman  had  gone.  Heatherleigh's  words  had  partly  sobered 
her ;  she  had  begged  my  forgiveness,  and  burst  into  a  flood 
of  alcoholic  tears.  When  Heatherleigh  came  back,  I  noticed 
that  he  was  rather  pale,  and  there  was  a  thoughtful,  fixed  look 
in  his  face. 

All  the  way  down  in  the  train  he  scarcely  spoke.  Neither 
of  us  cared  to  read  by  the  light  of  the  dingy  carriage-lamp, 
and  so  we  lay  and  stared  out  into  the  dusk.  There  was  a 
faint  light  outside,  owing  to  the  moon,  but  the  moon  herself 
remained  hidden. 

Presently  he  said  to  me,  looking  up  from  his  reverie — 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  or  see  anything  like  that  ?  " 

I  knew  what  he  meant,  and  I  said — 

"  It  is  the  last  time  Polly  will  ever  be  in  that  room." 

"  I  followed  her,"  he  said.  "  I  overtook  her,  and,  do  you 
know,  she  would  scarcely  speak  to  me.  The  poor  girl  seemed 
quite  dazed  and  bewildered — no  wonder.  I  .could  have 
strangled  that  incoherent  old  idiot  who  went  raving  on  and 
seeing  nothing  of  what  she  was  doing.  And  yet  Polly  should 
not  have  been  so  much  put  out.  When  I  told  her  we  all  tin- 


72  KILMENY. 

derstood  that  her  mother  was  talking  nonsense,  she  said  noth- 
ing but  that  I  was  to  go  back  again,  and  leave  her  to  go  home 
alone.  I  don't  understand  it." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Polly  never  spoke  to  you  any 
more,"  I  said. 

"  Why  ? "  he  asked,  with  a  quick  glance  of  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  don't  think  she  ever  will." 

The  apartments  which  Heatherleigh  had  secured  for  us 
were  in  King's  Road,  and  therefore  fronting  the  sea.  But  as 
we  drove  down  from  the  station  and  around  to  the  house,  I 
could  see  nothing  but  a  dusky  gray  where  the  sea  ought  to 
have  been.  I  heard  the  murmur  of  it,  however,  far  away, 
like  innumerable  strange  voices. 

Supper  was  prepared  for  us.  Afterwards  Heatherleigh 
smoked  a  solitary  pipe  in  silence  ;  and  then  we  retired  to  our 
respective  rooms.  Mine  was  a  small  chamber,  near  the  top  of 
the  house,  fronting  the  sea.  I  could  not  sleep  for  that  strange 
noise,  that  seemed  so  wild  and  distant  and  yet  so  saclly  fa- 
miliar. I  must  have  lain  and  tossed  about  for  a  couple  of 
hours  or  so,  I  think,  and  then  I  began  to  perceive  that  the 
room  was  full  of  light,  and  on  the  wall,  near  the  window,  the 
moon  was  gleaming  in  slanting  squares. 

I  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  and  involuntarily  I  ut- 
tered a  cry  of  astonishment  and  joy.  The  world  outside  was 
all  aglow  with  moonlight  of  a  soft  and  greenish-yellowish  hue, 
the  large,  full  moon  herself  hanging  up  there  over  the  sea 
and  throwing  a  great,  broad  lane  of  glittering  light  on  the 
water.  Every  object  was  sharply  and  clearly  defined  ;  from 
the  palings  along  the  Parade  and  the  boats  on  the  gray  beach 
to  the  fleet  of  fishing-smacks  whose  black  hulls  lay  and  rolled 
in  the  flood  of  moonlight.  And  I  could  see  the  waves  now — 
tiny  waves  that  came  gently  in,  and  broke  over  with  a  murmur 
which  was  repeated  and  echoed  in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
The  picture  was  magical,  wonderful.  I  listened  to  the  sound 
of  the  waves,  and  gazed  upon  the  splendid  pathway  of  silver 
that  lay  and  quivered  on  the  great  gray  plain  of  the  sea,  until 
I  was  numbed  with  cold.  Then  I  hastily  dressed  myself, 
sneaked  down-stairs,  opened  the  door  of  the  house  stealthily, 
and  was  outside. 

There  was  not  a  human  being  abroad  at  that  hour ;  this  whole, 
beautiful  world  was  mine.  I  walked  away  from  the  houses 
— eastward,  past  the  chain-pier,  the  dark  masses  of  which 
were  touched  with  the  moonlight,  and  past  those  long  terraces 
of  tall  buildings  that  gleamed  gray  and  ghost  like  in  the  si- 
lence of  the  night.  I  wandered  on,  along  the  smooth  turf  of 


LEWES  CASTLE.  7;, 

the  cliffs,  meeting  no  one  but  some  solitary  coast-guardsman 
— a  black  figure  seen  vaguely  against  the  gray-green  of  the 
sea.  The  moon  was  at  my  back  now,  but  all  around  was 
the  wonderful,  calm,  clear  light ;  and  so  I  walked  on  until  I 
stood  over  Rottingdean,  the  small  hamlet  that  lay  dark  and 
silent  under  the  throbbing  eastern  stars. 

Here  I  went  down  on  the  beach.  The  tide  was  some  dis- 
tance out ;  and  there  came  a  breezy  odor  of  sea-weed  from 
those  patches  of  rock  out  there,  among  which  the  pools  of 
water  glimmered  white.  I  lay  clown  on  the  shingle,  under 
the  great  cliffs,  that  echoed  back  the  long  rush  of  the  waves 
on  the  shore.  I  could  now  see  the  distant  lamps  of  Brighton, 
the  black  line  of  the  pier,  the  specks  of  fishing-boats,  and  the 
moon  that  seemed  to  belong  to  that  side  of  the  picture; 
while  before  me  stretched  the  vague  and  mystical  sea,  and 
overhead  dwelt  the  silence  of  those  splendid  constellations 
that  were  now  growing  faint  and  wan.  Was  that  the  famous 
jewel  of  the  Harp  that  gleamed  so  palely  there  ?  The 
twisted  snakes  of  Cerberus  were  cold  and  dead,  and  the  flam- 
ing points  that  used  to  stud  the  aerial  harness  of  Pegasus 
were  scarcely  visible.  Hercules  himself  seemed  sick  and 
pale  in  the  moonlight ;  or  was  it  another  strange  light  that 
now  began  to  show  in  the  east,  bringing  with  it  a  stirring 
of  cold  wind  ?  I  know  that  when  I  returned  to  Brighton,  and 
got  into  the  house  again  and  tumbled  into  bed,  a  glow  of  pale 
saffron  was  shining  along  the  level  coast  by  Shoreham  and 
Worthing ;  while  high  up  in  the  east  there  were  flakes  of  red 
in  the  sky,  and  all  the  new  motion  of  the  dawn. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LEWES  CASTLE. 

I  AWOKE  in  a  torrent  of  adjectives.  Heatherleigh  was 
standing  by  my  bedside,  heaping  reproaches  on  me  for  lying 
so  long  on  such  a  morning,  when,  as  was  evident  from  the 
great  splatches  of  sunlight  on  the  wall  of  the  room,  the 
weather  was  lovely.  He  was  dressed  remarkably  well — in  a 
fashion  which  set  off  his 'handsome  figure;  and  you  would 
have  failed  entirely  to  recognize  in  this  tall  and  gentlemanly 
looking  man,  with  his  accurate  gloves,  the  easily  negligent  tie, 
and  the  large  brown  beard  which  was  exactly  that  of  the 
"  swell  "  of  that  time,  the  indolent  student-painter  who  a  few 


7|  KILMENY. 

clays  before  was  lounging  about  a  dirty  room  in  Granby  Street 
in  shabby  clothes,  with  unkempt  hair,  no  collar,  and  an  old 
wooden  pipe.  The  odd  thing  was  that  in  either  case  there 
was  not  the  least  self-conscious  assumption.  He  was  as 
natural  in  the  one  condition  as  the  other ;  although  I  think 
he  greatly  enjoyed  the  sudden  contrast  of  these  twin  modes 
of  living,  and  went  to  extremes  in  both  to  increase  his 
pleasure. 

"  Why,  it  is  past  twelve,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  been  riding 
with  Bonnie  Lesley  since  half-past  ten.  Ah  !  I  thought  I'd 
wake  you  up  with  that  bit  of  news.  Fancy  our  having  been 
at  Rottingdean  while  you  were  lying  asleep,  like  a  pig,  in 
broad  daylight." 

"I  was  at  Rottingdean  this  morning  before  either  of  you," 
I  said  ;  and  then  I  told  him  how  I  had  wandered  about  all 
night. 

"  Madness  !  my  boy,  madness  !  "  he  said.  "  But  come, 
dress  yourself  smartly  ;  you  are  due  at  the  Lewisons'  at  one, 
for  lunch  ;  and  Miss  Lesley  sends  her  kind  regards,  and  hopes 
you  will  spend  the  afternoo"n  with  her.  This  is  a  compliment, 
mind  you ;  for  she  is  holding  quite  a  court  down  here." 

"  I  hope  you  have  made  friends  with  her  again,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  Bonnie  Lesley  and  I  have  always  been  friends — of  a 
kind,"  he  said. 

When  I  went  down-stairs,  and  went  to  the  front  window, 
the  world  of  Brighton  was  out  driving  and  riding  and  walk- 
ing in  the  glowing  sunlight,  while  a  gentle  sea-breeze  came 
over  the  far  blue  plain,  and  brought  with  it  coolness,  and  the 
odor  of  sea-weed,  and  plash  of  the  waves  on  the  beach. 
What  a  gay  and  brilliant  company  it  was,  to  be  sure — the 
twos  and  threes  of  ladies  who  lay  lazily  and  proudly  in  their 
phaetons  and  landaus ;  the  packs  of  rosy-cheeked  girls  who 
cantered  past  on  horse-back,  accompanied  by  a  riding-master 
or  their  papa  ;  the  incessant  strolling  backwards  and  forwards 
of  men  and  women  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  and 
having  the  air  about  them  of  ths  superiority  of  conscious 
wealth  and  beauty !  This  was  the  world  which  I  was  asked 
to  enter — I,  a  waif  and  stray,  a  nobody,  an  insignificant 
fraction  of  that  other  world  of  hard  work  and  narrow  means, 
of  small  hopes  and  few  enjoyments.  I  did  enter  it,  almost 
against  my  inclination  ;  and  I  saw  for  the  first  time  how 
these  rich  and  beautiful  people  passed  day  after  day,  week 
after  week — the  round  of  brilliant  pleasures  they  enjoyed, 
the  gay  scenes  and  pleasant  excitements  which  were  always 
pressing  upon  them,  their  courteous  ways  and  manners,  their 


LEWES  CASTLE,  75 

kindness,  amiability,  frivolity.  Anybody  acquainted  with  the 
ordinary  life  of  fashionable  people  could  describe  it  in  a  few 
words;  but  to  me  it  was  all  new  and  wonderful. 

At  one  o'clock  we  presented  ourselves  at  the  Lewisons'. 
There  were  a  number  of  people  there  ;  and  they  were  quite 
different  from  the  people  I  had  met  at  their  house  before. 
The  aesthetic  element  was  nearly  wholly  absent.  Instead  of 
sculptors  and  authors,  and  what  not,  the  party  consisted  of 
very  grand  people  who  happened  to  be  visiting  Brighton — 
among  them  a  viscount.  I  looked  at  this  gentleman  with 
awe.  He  was  a  small,  thin,  gray-haired  man,  who  paid  par- 
ticular attention  to  his  plate,  and  muttered  to  himself  his 
comments  on  what  other  people  were  saying.  His  wife  was 
a  young  and  pretty  woman,  who  exhibited  all  the  little 
coquetries  of  a  girl,  and  was  especially  amiable  to  Heather- 
leigh,  beside  whom  she  sat.  I  sat  between  her  and  Miss 
Lesley ;  and  when  the  viscountess  happened  to  say  some- 
thing to  me,  which  she  did  with  a  smile  that  made  you  fancy 
you  had  known  her  for  years,  I  was  in  great  straits  to  know 
whether  I  should,  in  answering  her,  address  her  by  her  title. 
As  I  was  not  quite  sure,  however,  what  that  was,  I  forebore, 
and  hoped  I  was  not  guilty  of  some  appalling  rudeness. 

But  for  my  being  beside  Bonnie  Lesley,  perhaps  I  should 
have  been  overwhelmed  by  this  assemblage  of  grand  people. 
No  sooner,  however,  had  we  re-established  our  old  relations 
with  each  other,  and  these  consisted  of  many  little  secret 
understandings,  which  were  very  pleasant  to  ourselves,  than 
I  forgot  all  about  the  other  persons  present.  She  and  I 
talked  exclusively  with  each  other,  despite  the  efforts  of  one 
or  two  gentlemen  to  engage  her  in  conversation  across  the 
table.  I  noticed  that  more  than  one  of  them  regarded  me 
with  a  stare  of  stolid  surprise,  when  she  persistently  turned 
and  talked  to  me  in  her  confidential  way. 

"  You  have  no  other  companion,  then,  down  here  than 
Heatherleigh  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No." 

"  Don't  you  find  him  dull  at  times  ? " 

"  Never.     He  is  the  best  companion  I  could  wish  for." 

"  How  strange  ! "  she  said,  with  a  pretty  smile.  "  But, 
even  if  he  is  so  pleasant  a  companion,  you  can't  always  go 
about  with  him.  You  will  see  him  captured  by  somebody 
when  lunch  is  over ;  and  he  will  be  taken  off  to  drive  with 
some  of  those  ladies.  So  shall  I,  probably  ;  or  perhaps  some 
of  those  gentlemen  over  there  will  thrust  themselves  upon 
us.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  our  going  off  at  once,  the 


76  KILMENY. 

moment  they  rise  from  table  ?  The  mail-phaeton  is  to  be 
round  in  a  few  minutes :  what  if  we  slip  down-stairs,  and  go 
oif  without  warning  ?  " 

"  Nothing  could  be  better." 

"  You  won't  be  afraid  if  I  drive  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  But  you  need  not  drive,  unless  you  like. 
I  have  had  lots  of  experience  with  horses  in  the  country." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  am  passionately  fond  of  driving ;  and 
as  they  never  will  let  me  take  out  those  horses  by  myself,  I 
mean  to  secure  them  to-day  by  stratagem." 

So  it  was  arranged  ;  and  I  was  delighted  with  the  arrange- 
ment, not  expecting  that  it  would  lead  to  a  little  scene.  The 
moment  we  were  free,  she  and  I  slipped  out  of  the  room, 
and  I  went  down-stairs,  while  she  went  to  change  her  attire. 
The  carriage  was  there,  and  I  had  had  sufficient  acquaintance 
with  the  horses  at  Burnharn  House  to  see  that  one  of  the 
pair  harnessed  to  this  phaeton  was  rather  a  restive  animal, 
which  the  groom  was  trying  as  well  as  he  could  to  pacify. 
Presently  Bonnie  Lesley  appeared,  with  a  flush  of  pleasure 
on  her  fine  face.  More  than  one  passer-by  turned  to  look  at 
her  as  she  got  up  into  the  high  seat,  and  took  the  reins  in 
her  fingers,  while  the  other  hand,  small  and  tightly  gloved, 
held  the  whip  in  the  most  artistic  fashion.  Suddenly 
Heatherleigh  came  running  down. 

"  Really,  Miss  Lesley,  you  must  not — " 

"  I  will,"  she  said,  rapidly  and  in  a  low  voice,  while  she  cut 
at  the  neck  of  the  restive  horse  with  her  whip.  The  animal 
would  have  sprung  forward  ;  but  Heatherleigh  had  rushed  to 
its  head  (displacing  the  groom)  and  tried  to  hold  it.  Of  course 
the  horse  plunged  and  reared. 

"  I  tell  you,  Miss  Lesley,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  you  will  kill 
yourself  and  him,  too." 

The  girl's  face  turned  white  with  a  spasm  of  anger. 

"Are  you  afraid  ? "  she  said  to  me  abruptly. 

"  No." 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

With  that  she  made  a  cut  at  the  neck  of  the  near  horse 
with  her  whip,  and  then  caught  the  other,  which  Heatherleigh 
was  holding,  over  the  ear.  Both  horses  sprang  forward,  near- 
ly knocking  him  to  the^ground  ;  and  the  next  minute  we  were 
dashing  along  the  Parade,  while  Miss  Lesley  sat  cold  and 
firm,  without  moving  a  muscle. 

Then  she  burst  into  a  laugh  of  downright,  unaffected  mer- 
riment. 


LEWES  CASTLE.  77 

"I  hope  I  didn't  knock  him  over;  but  I  half  expected  he 
w-.mld  come  out,  and  I  was  determined  to  have  my  own  way 
for  once.  I  am  so  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  coming; 
and  I  will  take  the  greatest  care  of  you.  No,  you  needn't 
laugh:  I  fancy  you  looked  afraid  when  you  got  up." 

"  If  I  had  been  afraid,"  I  said,  "I  should  have  been  none 
the  less  delighted  to  come." 

"Why?" 

She  withdrew  her  eyes  for  a  moment  from  the  horses' 
heads  and  fixed  them  on  my  face  with  her  ordinary  look  of 
bright  wonder.  Under  other  circumstances  I  might  have 
felt  embarrassed  by  this  awkward  question ;  but  driving 
through  the  cool  wind,  in  the  brilliant  sunlight,  and  perched 
up  beside  the  handsomest  woman  in  Brighton,  who  could  have 
failed  to  acquire  some  boldness  ? 

"  The  pleasure  of  being  beside  you  might  make  one  risk  a 
much  greater  danger  than  this ;  and  you  knew  that  when  you 
asked  me  to  come." 

She  laughed  a  charming  and  unaffected  little  laugh,  and 
was  evidently  greatly  pleased — why,  I  was,  long  afterwards, 
to  find  out. 

"  Shall  we  turn  and  drive  back  along  the  Parade  and  the 
King's  Road?" 

"  As  you  like." 

"  People  will  stare  at  us,  if  I  drive." 

"Why  should  you  care?" 

"  There  are  such  a  lot  of  carriages  out  at  this  time." 

"  Come,"  I  said,  "  confess  that  you  want  me  to  urge  you  to 
do  it— and  I  do." 

She  wheeled  round  the  horses  very  cleverly ;  and  soon  we 
were  again  clattering  along  the  Parade.  When  we  got  into 
the  thick  of  the  carriages  in  the  King's  Road,  it  was  aston- 
ishing to  see  the  number  of  people,  mostly  gentlemen,  who 
bowed  to  her.  Every  one  looked  at  her — as  well  they  might ; 
for  in  all  that  brilliant  throng  there  was  neither  girl  nor 
woman  to  be  compared  with  her. 

"  There  is  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  she  said  to  me. 

He  was  seated  in  an  open  carriage,  with  two  ladies  and  an- 
other gentleman.  As  they  approached,  I  saw  that  one  of  the 
ladies  was  the  viscountess  whom  I  had  seen  at  lunch,  and  I 
supposed  that  the  gentleman  opposite  her  was  her  husband. 
He  and  Heatherleigh  had  their  backs  towards  us,  and,  of 
course,  could  not  see  us. 

"  I  am  getting  tired  of  this.  What  do  you  say  to  going  for 
a  short  drive  into  the  country  ?  " 


78  KILMENY. 

Having  made  some  inquiries  about  the  horses  of  the  man 
who  was  in  the  small  box  behind,  it  was  finally  arranged  that 
we  should  drive  to  Lewes.  I  was  glad  to  get  away  from  the 
crowded  thoroughfare,  and  into  the  sweet-smelling  country 
roads.  The  summer  was  at  its  brightest  and  greenest ;  and 
we  had  no  sooner  left  the  town,  and  got  into  the  quiet  of 
meadows  and  cornfields  than  Miss  Lesley  regained  her  equa- 
nimity, and  began  to  talk  in  her  usual  cheerful  and  confiden- 
tial way.  Indeed,  I  was  very  much  struck  by  the  rapid  fash- 
ion in  which  vexations  passed  off  her  mind.  While  she  had 
been  bitterly  angry  with  Heatherleigh  at  the  moment  of 
starting,  three  seconds  had  sufficed  to  chase  away  her  resent- 
ment and  restore  her  ordinary  good-nature.  Her  temper  was 
like  a  delicately  balanced  pair  of  scales  :  a  touch  of  your  fin- 
ger would  produce  a  great  disturbance,  but  the  disturbance 
never  lasted  above  a  moment. 

What  a  pleasant  drive  it  was,  through  the  cool  avenues  of 
trees,  and  out  again  into  the  glare  of  the  sunlight,  with  the  broad 
white  road  lying  like  a  line  of  silver  between  the  dark-green 
meadows  and  fields.  Here  and  there  they  had  begun  to  cut  the 
tall  clover,  and  from  the  cleared  portions  of  the  fields  the  piles 
of  gray-green  hay  sent  us  the  warm,  sweet  odor  which  makes  the 
summer  gracious.  But  for  the  most  part  the  grass  was  still 
standing ;  and  the  Fight  breeze  that  went  over  it  stirred  the 
smooth  velvet  plain  into  waves  of  shimmering  gray,  while  it 
rustled  across  the  great  cornfields  and  swayed  the  as  yet  un- 
ripe ears  of  the  wheat.  The  country  was  as  still  and  silent 
as  the  unfathomable  blue  that  stretched  overhead ;  you  only 
heard  the  far-off  call  of  the  cuckoo  from  some  distant  wood. 

At  length  we  reached  the  old.fashioned  and  picturesque 
town, with  its  quaint  and  clean  streets,  its  sudden  descents, 
its  ancient  churches,  and  its  fine  old  castle.  If  a  stranger 
wished  to  see  a  typical  English  country  town,  homely,  quiet, 
and  bright,  with  neither  the  pestilence  of  manufactories  in 
the  air  nor  the  vices  of  fashion  visible  in  the  streets,  could 
he  do  better  than  visit  Lewes  ?  I  had  never  been  to  Lewes  ; 
but  I  was  proud  of  it,  for  Miss  Lesley's  sake.  She,  too,  was 
a  stranger  to  the  place  ;  and,  after  she  had  delivered  over  the 
horses  to  the  man  to  be  put  up,  we  started  on  an  exploring 
expedition.  We  went  down  the  hilly  streets,  and  through 
quiet  thoroughfares,  and  out  to  the  precipitous  chalk  hills 
which  surround  the  outskirts  ;  then  we  returned  to  the  Cas- 
tle, and  clambered  up  the  wooded  old  ruin,  where  the  sunlight 
was  straggling  down  through  the  elms  and  chestnuts.  We 
were  the  only  visitors  ;  and  when  we  had  got  right  up  to  the 


L:-:WES  CASTLE.  79 

top  of  the  tower,  we  found  ourselves  alone,  for  the  portly 
and  good-humored  seneschal  remained  below. 

The  view  from  the  top  of  Lewes  Castle,  as  everybody 
knows,  is  one  of  the  finest  in  England  ;  and  on  this  particular 
day  the  splendid  plain,  with  its  woods  and  hills  and  valleys, 
lay  in  the  warm  sunshine  and  shone.  I  think  such  a  view, 
whether  in  sunlight  or  not,  is  rather  saddening — perhaps  it 
was  so  to  me  because  it  so  closely  resembled  that  stretch  of 
Buckinghamshire  country  which  was  connected  in  my  mind 
with  so  many  old  memories.  However,  Bonnie  Lesley  leaned 
on  the  parapet,  and  gazed  long  and  wistfully  over  the  great 
extent  of  country  that  lay  so  peacefully  under  the  summer 
sky.  Suddenly  she  spoke,  and  I  saw  that  she  had  not  been 
dreaming  dreams  of  by-gone  times. 

"  Did  you  think  I  was  very  angry  when  Mr.  Heatherleigh 
tried  to  stop  the  horses  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  saw  how  soon  I  got  over  it  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Would  you  consider  that  a  fault  ?  " 

"  What,  a  fault  to  get  rid  of  anger  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  I  should  consider  it — and  did — a  sign  of  great  good- 
nature." 

"  Mr.  Heatherleigh  would  say  it  was  weakness." 

She  turned  and  said  this  to  me  with  a  show  of  petulance, 
and  there  was  a  kind  of  wonder  in  her  eyes. 

"1  think  you  mistake  Heatherleigh  altogether,"  I  said, 
"  or  else  there  is  a  misunderstanding  on  both  sides." 

She  laughed. 

**  Is  that  a  question  ?  There  is  no  mystery  between  us. 
He  says  I  am  incapable  of  mystery,  among  other  things." 

"Heatherleigh  couldn't  say  anything  so  idiotic.  Why 
should  anybody  want  to  be  mysterious  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  mystery,  entirely,  that  I  mean.  But,  tell 
me,  you  and  he  are  very  much  alike  in  your  tastes  ?  " 

"  Very  much,  indeed." 

"  You  care  for  the  same  sort  of  people  ;  you  have  the  same 
notions  of  things  ;  you  have  the  same  sort  of  nature,  in 
short ! " 

"  Pretty  much  the  same  in  most  things,"  I  said,  "  but  very 
different  in  others." 

"  You  like  the  same  sort  of  people  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  And  you  said  it  was  a  pleasure  to  you  to  come  with  me  ? " 


So  KILMENY. 

"You  know  that  it  is." 

She  laughed  again. 

You  must  remember  that  this  was  the  first  "  fine  lacly  " 
with  whom  I  had  ever  been  privileged  to  be  on  any  terms  of 
intimacy ;  and  that  I  found  nothing  singular  or  abnormal  in 
her  peculiarly  frank  way  of  talking.  I  was  not  aware  that 
there  was  a  touch  of  the  Bohemienne  in  her  manner  and  con- 
duct. I  knew  nothing  of  the  extreme  restraint  that  society 
imposes  on  the  speech  and  general  relations  of  young  and 
unmarried  folks.  I  saw  that,  among  other  people,  Bonnie 
Lesley  was  as  reserved  and  ceremonious  as  any ;  and  fancied 
that  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  her  childlike  confidence 
and  her  self-disclosures,  when  it  had  pleased  her  to  break 
the  bonds  of  formality  between  herself  and  me.  And  this 
boldness  of  hers  naturally  encouraged  me  to  be  bold.  I  did 
not  know  that  I  was  sinning  against  the  laws  of  society,  and 
offending  the  canons  of  good  taste,  in  showing  her  what  I 
thought  of  her  good  looks,  and  in  expressing  gratitude  for 
her  special  favor  to  myself. 

Doubtless  she  perceived  this ;  and  was  provoked  in  exagger- 
ating the  license  of  her  frankness  through  some  notion  of  the 
humor  of  the  position.  If  she  encouraged  me,  my  simplicity  en- 
couraged her.  My  ignorance  of  the  customs  of  good  society 
had  produced  in  me  that  peculiarity  of  which  Polly  Whistler 
spoke — I  was  unable  to  see  why  a  man  and  a  woman  should 
not  be  as  intimate  in  their  confidences  as  two  women,  and  I 
never  could  teach  myself  the  least  embarrassment  in  speak- 
ing to  a  woman.  This  much  by  way  of  explanation,  or  ex- 
cuse, for  much  that  happened  then,  and  will  have  to  be  re- 
corded afterwards. 

"Will  you  consider  me  egotistical,"  she  continued,  "  if  I 
ask  you  to  tell  me  what  you  think  of  me  ? " 

"  I  daren't,"  I  said. 

"What!"  she  replied  turning  her  eyes  upon  me  with  a 
look  of  amused  surprise  in  them,  "  are  you  afraid  to  tell  me 
the  truth  ?  And  is  it  because  you  would  have  too  many  cruel 
things  or  too  many  pretty  things,  to  say  to  me  ?  But  do  let 
me  hear  what  you  would  say,  in  my  case.  I  shall  not  be  an- 
gry." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "  I  think  you  are  very  kind." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  think  you  are  very  courageous  and  independent  in  your 
kindness.  'For  instance,  you  leave  all  your  friends  to  come 
here  with  me,  who  am  almost  a  stranger  to  you,  and  you 
make  friends  with  me  instead  of — " 


LEWES  CAST;.!-:.  81 

'  All  that  is  nothing,*  she  said. 
•Then  you  are  very  amiable." 

Well?" 

And  remarkably  good-natured." 
Well  ?  " 

'Very  frank." 

«  Well  ?  " 

Here  I  stopped,  not  knowing  how  to  describe  her  dispo- 
sition further,  whereupon  she  cried  out  impatiently — 

"  Don't  you  see  ?  That  is  the  very  thing.  I  am  amiable 
and  good-tempered  and  kind  :  is  that  all  you  say  ?  Why  not 
say  I  am  desperately  revengeful  or  cunning  or  passionate  or 
morose— -anything  gloomy  and  deep  and  hideous  ?  He  says 
there  is  no  background  to  my  disposition — " 

"  And  pray  who  could  have  said,  anything  so  abominable 
and  wrong  ?  "  said  a  new  voice,  and  Heatherleigh  appeared 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  stepped  out  upon  the  leaden 
roof  of  the  tower. 

Miss  Lesley  turned  with  a  start  to  see  who  was  the  speak- 
er, and  when  she  saw  who  had  overheard  her,  she  stamped 
her  foot  with  an  involuntary  spasm  of  vexation.  Then  she 
crimsoned  deeply,  bit  her  lip,  and  turned  contemptuously 
away,  pretending  to  look  out  upon  the  plain. 

"  Pray  forgive  me  for  breaking  in  upon  you,  Miss  Lesley," 
said  Heatherleigh,  who  seemed  rather  amused  by  the  scene, 
"  but  I  could  not  help  riding  after  you  to  see  that  no  clanger 
befell  you.  Come,  don't  be  angry,  if  I  interrupted  your  tcte- 
a-tete  at  an  awkward  moment — upon  my  honor,  I  had  no  in- 
tention of  doing  so.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  at  the  foot 
of  the  tower  for  a  long  time  ;  then  I  thought  I'd  be  able  to 
point  out  some  objects  of  interest  to  you  if  I  came  up." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  coldly. 

"  Come,  Ted,"  he  said,  "  be  my  intercessor.  Plead  fcr 
me." 

But  Miss  Lesley  turned  around,  with  a  smile  breaking 
through  the  coldness  of  her  look,  and  said — 

"  We  will  forgive  you,  if  you  fulfill  your  promise.  Tell  us 
everything  you  know  about  the  place." 

Which  he  did — for  he  had  lived  in  Lewes,  and  studied  its 
history  and  traditions  and  legends ;  told  us  such  stories  of 
friars  and  kings  and  knights,  of  battles  and  sieges  and  monk- 
ish exploits,  that  the  place  appeared  to  me  enchanted.  It 
seemed  as  though  that  old  and  beautiful  and  picturesque  time 
was  divided  from  us  by  some  thin  veil  of  mist;  and  that,  if 
6 


82  KILMENY. 

we  went  clown  there,  might  it  not  return  to  the  still,  quiet  town  ? 
How  long  ago  was  it  that  the  cold  winter  days  awoke  to 
find  the  Saxon  farm-people  overlorded  by  the  fierce  and 
drunken  sea-pirates  of  the  North,  while  Alfred  the  King  and 
his  small  court  lay  hiding  in  the  swamps  of  Athelney,  plan- 
ning a  sudden  raid  upon  them  ?  How  long  ago  was  it  that 
Canute,  sailing  through  the  yellow  sea  fog  of  the  morning, 
heard  the  monks  of  Ely  singing,  and  bade  his  knights  row 
near  the  land  ?  The  time  came  quite  near  to  us  ;  English 
history  seemed  to  be  around  us ;  and  as  we  leaned  upon 
the  old  wall  and  looked  down  on  those  fields  and  mounds 
into  which  generation  after  generation  of  Saxons  and  Nor- 
mans and  English  had  peacefully  passed,  there  came  up  to 
us  the  slow,  soft  notes  of  an  organ,  which  was  being  played 
in  one  of  the  churches.  It  was  probably  only  the  work  of 
some  amateur  player,  trying  over  some  new  chants ;  but  as 
it  reached  us — so  faintly  that  we  lost  it  occasionally — it 
seemed  a  breath  from  these  old  forgotten  times,  full  of 
mystery  and  pathos  and  sadness. 

Miss  Lesley  uttered  a  light  cry  ;  she  had  dropped  her  glove 
over  the  wall. 

"  Jump  down  for  it,"  she  said  to  me ;  "  or  shall  we  all  go 
clown  ?  The  horses  must  have  rested  sufficiently  by  this  time  ; 
and  that  young  one  especially  gets  fidgety  if  he  is  kept  long 
in  strange  stables.  I  hope  he  won't  run  away  with  me." 

"  If  he  were  a  more  intelligent  animal,  he  might  be  excused," 
said  Heatherleigh,  with  a  smile. 

Bonnie  Lesley  blushed  slightly,  and  said,  rather  inappropri- 
ately— 

"  Oh,  you  think  that  men  are  superior  to  all  the  other  ani- 
mals ? " 

"  In  some  things  only,"  he  said.  "  As  food,  for  instance, 
men  are  inferior  to  sheep." 

I  could  not  help  reflecting  what  a  rejoinder  Polly  Whistler 
would  have  made  at  this  moment.  Indeed,  I  somtimes  wished 
that  Miss  Lesley,  with  all  her  splendid  graces  and  accomplish- 
ments, could  possess  herself  of  Polly's  wit  and  gay  humor  and 
brightness.  But  would  not  a  perfect  woman  be  a  monster? 
Surely  Bonnie  Lesley  had  enough  of  what  was  beautiful  and 
desirable  in  a  woman  ! 

When  we  had  gone  down  to  the  hotel,  and  ordered  the  man 
to  get  out  the  horses,  Heatherleigh  came  up  to  me,  and  said 
(Miss  Lesley  was  not  within  hearing) — 

"  You  can  ride,  can  you  not  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  I  can  stick  on  the  back  of  a  horse  like  a  leech." 


/./-;//v-:.v  CASTU-:.  83 

"  Will  you  ride  my  horse  home,  and  let  me  go  in  the  phae- 
ton ? " 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  " 

"  No—" 

"  Then  why  do  you  want  to  exchange  ? " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  just  now — " 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  go  back  in  the  phaeton.  You  seem  not 
to  like  Miss  Lesley;  why  should  you  want  to  go  with  her?" 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  turning  away. 

There  was  no  look  of  disappointment  or  vexation  on  his 
face ;  but  there  was  a  meaning  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  which 
I  could  not  understand.  Then  his  anxiety  that  she  and  I 
should  not  go  off  together — his  sudden  appearance  at  the  old 
castle — this  present  desire  to  separate  us — what  could  it  all 
mean  ? 

Was  he  jealous  of  the  favor  which  Miss  Lesley,  in  her 
thoughtless  good-nature,  was  so  liberally  extending  to  me  ? 
I  was  irresistibly  driven  to  this  conclusion  ;  and  my  old  friend, 
if  he  should  happen  to  read  these  confessions,  will  understand 
that  I  now  record  the  fact  with  shame. 

That  notion  took  possession  of  me,  and  by  its  false  light  I 
read  all  the  occurrences  which  happened  at  this  time.  On 
that  very  night — after  Bonnie  Lesley  had  driven  home  in  time 
for  dinner — Heatherleigh  and  I  dined  at  a  big  new  restaurant 
in  West  Street.  He  spoke  of  what  had  happened  at  Lewes 
Castle. 

"  I  only  caught  the  last  sentence  ;  but  I  knew  that  she  had 
been  speaking  of  what  I  had  said  about  her,  and  as  I  did  not 
wish  to  hear  more,  I  broke  in  upon  you." 

"  Then  you  did  say  that  ? " 

"  I  did,  and  do.  The  girl  is  in  many  respects  a  very  good 
sort  of  creature  ;  but  she  has  no  more  permanence  or  depth 
of  character  than  a  sheet  of  tissue-paper." 

"  Her  good-nature — " 

"  Her  good-nature  is  negative.  It  is  the  absence  of  the 
power  to  be  really  angry.  She  has  not  depth  of  nature  enough 
even  to  feel  a  proper  resentment  against  anybody  or  anything. 
She  has  no  emotional  capacity  whatever.  She  admires  every- 
thing in  a  pretty  and  careless  way,  and  admires  everything  to 
the  same  extent.  She  loves  and  hates  and  wonders,  all  in 
this  slight  and  superficial  fashion — " 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  stop,"  I  said  to  him.  "  When  you 
begin  to  talk  about  Miss  Lesley,  you  lose  your  reason.  What 
has  she  done  to  you,  that  you  should  be  so  savage  ?  And  if 
she  is  so  feeble  and  frivolous  a  creature,  why  were  you  so 


84  KILMENY. 

anxious  to  enjoy  her  society  that  you  rode  all  the  way  to 
Lewes,  and  why  did  you  want  to  go  back  with  her  in  the 
phaeton  ? " 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  few  seconds. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  have  your  troubles  to  come;  and  it 
doesn't  matter  which  woman  it  is  who  opens  your  eyes.  Do 
you  remember  when  Polly  and  I  were  talking  nonsense  about 
the  necessity  of  a  young  artist's  having  his  heart  broken  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  I  proposed  to  make  Bonnie  Lesley  the  operator  in 
your  case." 

"  Yes." 

"That  was  a  joke  ;  and  I  did  not  think  that  Bonnie  Lesley 
would  have  taken  the  whim  that  she  has  taken.  But  if  I 
were  to  tell  you  why  the  girl  is  petting  you,  you — with  your 
sublime  faith  in  the  virtue  of  everybody — would  not  believe 
me." 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said,  "if  you  proposed  to  tell  me  that 
the  girl  was  acting  unworthily.  Why,  it  is  too  absurd.  Take 
your  own  position — that  she  is  kind  to  me  for  some  particular 
purpose  of  her  own  ;  and  how  does  that  affect  me  ?  I  find  a 
warm-hearted  and  generous  girl,  whom  everybody  (except 
one)  admires  ;  and  she  chooses  to  make  friends  with  me,  who 
am  too  young  to  be  of  any  importance  to  her  or  to  anybody 
else — " 

"  Younger  men  than  you  have  run  away  with  pretty  girls, 
and  married  them.  Consequently,  younger  men  than  you 
have  been  led  into  the  notion  that  they  miglit  do  so,  and,  find- 
ing themselves  mistaken,  may  have  had  their  faith  in  human 
nature  destroyed  and  their  lives  ruined.  I  warn  you,  Ted, 
not  to  continue  your  friendship  with  this  girl.  I  rede  out  to 
Lewes  to  separate  you ;  and  I  would  have  ridden  as  far  again  ; 
for  your  sake  alone,  understand  me.  Perhaps,  as  it  was,  I 
saved  you  from  a  danger  that  might  have  befallen  you  in  a 
few  minutes — " 

The  thought  that  these  words  suggested  was  so  horrible  that 
I  started  back  from  it.  I  sprang  to  my  feet — my  face,  I 
knew,  was  as  white  as  death,  and  my  heart  seemed  choking. 
I  said  to  him — 

"  You  have  been  my  friend,  and  I  am  grateful ;  but,  as  sure 
as  I  live,  I  will  never  listen  to  another  word  from  your  lips." 

I  rushed  out  of  the  place  :  he  followed,  but  he  had  to  stop 
for  a  moment  or  two  to  explain  to  the  waiter.  This  saved  me. 
I  walked  about  all  night ;  and  took  the  first  train  in  the  morn- 
ing for  London. 


POLLY  AND  I  IK.  85 

CHAPTER  X. 

POLLY  AND    HE. 

I  WAS  hasty  enough,  I  know ;  but  I  was  beside  myself  with 
indignation.  For  Heatherleigh  to  talk  of  my  losing  faith  in 
human  nature  through  some  possible  underhand  dealing  on 
the  part  of  Miss  Lesley  seemed  absurd  when  I  considered 
that  he,  without  any  proof  or  reason  or  excuse,  suggested 
about  an  honest  and  good-hearted  girl  what  his  words  dared 
not  state  explicitly.  What  danger  ? — and  to  me  !  Why,  so 
great  was  my  sense  of  that  beautiful  creature's  bounty  in 
even  regarding  me  and  speaking  to  me,  that  I  should  have 
been  only  too  willing  to  suffer  anything  to  give  her  a  moment's 
pleasure.  And  it  was  out  of  the  question  that  any  suffering  of 
mine  could  affect  her  in  any  way.  Suppose  she  was  one  of 
those  impossible  women  who  are  supposed  to  go  about  the 
world  in  order  to  imperil  men's  souls  by  breaking  their  hearts 
— suppose  she  liked  to  boast  of  conquests  as  a  savage  points 
to  the  number  of  his  scalps,  was  it  likely  she  would  care  to 
make  a  conquest  of  me  ?  There  were  a  dozen  men  in  Bright- 
on at  that  time  anxious  to  have  the  honor  of  being  her 
victims.  They  hovered  around  her,  knowing  that  all  of  them 
could  not  marry  her,  and  certain  that  all,  except  some  particu- 
lar one,  must  be  disappointed.  To  catch  a  smile  or  a  word, 
or  the  pleasure  of  handing  her  a  fan,  they  sought  her  society 
at  this  risk  ;  and  it  was  not  to  be  considered  that  she  should 
turn  aside  from  these  suitors,  who  had  every  advantage  of  age 
and  position  and  money,  to  me,  as  one  likely  to  flirt  with  or 
make  love  to  her.  Why  she  should  in  any  case  have  shown 
me  such  favor  was  sufficient  of  a  mystery  ;  and  it  was  expli- 
cable only  on  the  ground  of  her  disinterested  good-nature  and 
that  independence  of  kindness  which  I  had  observed  in  her. 

As  I  was  going  up  Hampstead  Road  to  my  lodgings,  on  the 
morning  of  my  hurried  departure  from  Brighton,  I  met  Polly 
Whistler.  I  shook  hands  with  her  heartily ;  for  I  was  glad 
to  see  some  face  that  I  knew.  It  was  my  first  estrangement 
from  Heatherleigh  ;  and  all  the  world  seemed  to  have  grown 
cold  and  distrustful. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Ted  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  Polly ;  but  it  is  a  long  story. 
Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

tl  I  was  to  sit  to  Mr.  Frances  at  ten  o'clock,  in  place  of  that 
Italian  girl — only  for  the  costume,  you  know.  I  don't  look 


86  KILMENY. 

an  Italian  peasant  girl,  do  I  ?  However,  come  along  with  me, 
and  I  will  tell  him  I  can't  sit  for  him  this  morning.  He  must 
wait  for  her  until  to-morrow.  Then  we  can  take  a  walk  in 
Regent's  Park,  and  you  will  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  But  you  will  lose  the  sitting,"  I  suggested. 

"  I  don't  care  now,"  she  said,  rather  sadly ;  "  I  used  to  like 
to  gather  a  few  shillings  you  know,  and  buy  little  things  for 
the  house  ;  but  my  mother — " 

I  understood  the  mother  not  only  took  the  girl's  earnings, 
but  sold  such  little  ornaments  or  luxuries  as  she  chose  to  buy. 
So  Polly  and  I  went  around  to  Regent's  Park ;  and  I  told  her 
the  whole  story.  She  was  deeply  interested  in  it. 

"  And  do  you  think  he  is  in  love  with  her  ? "  she  asked, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  No,"  I  said  ;  "  I  can't  say  that.  A  man  would  not  talk 
about  a  woman  in  that  way  if  he  was  in  love  with  her." 

Polly  was  very  thoughtful  for  some  time.  We  sat  down  on 
one  of  the  benches  underneath  the  great  lime-trees  fronting 
the  broad  stretch  of  the  park  that  lies  south  of  the  Zoological 
Gardens.  It  was  here  that  I  had  first  seen  Bonnie  Lesley. 
There  were  few  people  in  the  park  at  this  time ;  and  an  un- 
usual silence  dwelt  around,  for  the  leaves  of  the  trees  scarcely 
stirred  in  the  warm  sunlight. 

"  You  think  he  would  not  talk  like  that  if  he  was  in  love 
with  her  ?  "  said  Polly.  "  Did  you  never  imagine  the  position 
of  a  man  who  is  compelled,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  love  a  girl 
whom  he  considers  unworthy  of  his  love?  Don't  you  think 
he  would  be  bitter  against  her,  and  bitterer  against  himself  ? 
Would  he  not  be  likely  to  laugh  at  the  folly  of  being  in  love ; 
and  sneer  at  those  feminine  arts  by  which  he  had  been  cap- 
tivated? Would  he  not  revenge  himself  in  that  way,  and 
cover  his  own  weakness,  of  which  he  is  ashamed  ?" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  this  bright  and  happy  girl  must  have 
had  her  moments  of  cruel  and  sad  reflection  before  she  could 
have  hit  upon  a  notion  like  that,  the  truth  of  which  flashed 
upon  me  at  once.  But  was  such  the  position  of  Heatherleigh  ? 

"  Come,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  what  have  you  and  I  to 
do  with  love  matters,  Ted  ?  They  are  for  rich  people,  who 
have  nothing  to  do  but  choose  whom  they  will  marry.  We 
have  our  living  to  look  after ;  and  it  takes  us  all  our  time, 
doesn't  it  ?  I  wonder  if,  in  the  next  world,  we  shall  be  able 
to  get  free  of  all  these  things,  and  speak  to  each  other  of  what 
might  have  been  here  below  ?  It  would  be  like  a  Sunday  out 
for  us  poor  people,  if  we  were  to  get  such  a  chance.  There — 
will  you  look  at  this  thing,  that  I  copied  the  other  night  ? " 


POLLY  A. YD  I  IK.  87 

With  a  sort  of  assumed  carelessness,  she  slipped  into  my 
hand  a  bit  of  paper,  which  I  unfolded.  There  were  some 
verses  on  it,  written  in  her  own  handwriting,  which  I  knew. 
It  was  very  correct  and  precise,  but  a  trifle  stiff:  she  had 
taught  herself. 

The  verses,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  began  with  these 

lines — 

If  you  and  I  were  only  ghosts, 

Cut  off  from  human  cares  and  pains, 
To  walk  together,  at  dead  of  night, 
Along  the  far  sidereal  plains — " 

and  went  on  to  say  how  they  would  forget  all  the  cruel  con- 
ditions that  had  separated  them  here  on  earth,  and  talk  to 
each  other  of  all  they  had  been  thinking  when  these  things 
had  kept  them  asunder.  Indeed,  the  lines,  touchingly  pathetic 
here  and  awkwardly  constructed  there,  were  so  obviously  a 
reproduction  of  what  she  had  been  saying,  that  I  cried  out — 

"  Oh,  Polly,  you  have  been  writing  poetry  ! " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  she  said,  with  an  embarrassment  and  blush- 
ing I  had  never  seen  her  exhibit.  "  I  told  you  I  had  copied 
it." 

"  And  you  told  me  a  fib.  " 

She  put  her  arm  inside  mine  (she  had  slipped  the  paper 
into  her  pocket  meanwhile),  and  said — 

"  Come,  let  us  go  into  the  gardens.  I  have  got  a  shilling, 
if  you  have.  And  you  shall  tell  me  of  all  you  mean  to  do. 
I  insist  first,  though,  on  you  making  friends  with  Mr.  Heather- 
leigh." 

We  passed  into  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  we  strolled 
about  the  walks,  sometimes  talking  about  Heatherleigh  and 
Bonnie  Lesley,  sometimes  talking  about  the  animals  in  the 
cages.  Polly  was  in  better  spirits  now ;  and  went  on  chatting  in 
her  usual  bright  and  happy  fashion.  I  wish  I  could  remem- 
ber a  tithe  of  the  remarks  she  made  about  the  animals — mad 
interpretations  of  their  feelings  and  opinions,  humorous 
touches  of  description,  and  comical  comparisons  of  every 
kind.  From  cage  to  cage  we  went,  from  enclosure  to  enclosure, 
and  there  was  scarcely  a  bird  or  a  beast  that  she  did  not  en- 
dow with  human  feelings,  and  wonder  what  each  was  thinking 
of  at  the  time.  Some  of  these  anthropomorphic  fancies  were 
extraordinarily  ingenious,  and  they  flowed  out  so  freely  and 
spontaneously  as  to  charm  one  with  their  constant  variety  and 
novelty.  She  had  just  described  the  opinion  probably  held 
by  a  very  mangy-looking  hyena  about  Offenbach's  music,  as 
played  by  the  band  of  the  Coldstream  Guards  opposite  its 


88  KILMENY. 

cage  when  her  arm,  which  was  inside  mine,  gave  a  sudden 
start.     Heather] eigh  approached. 

The  expression  of  her  face  changed  instantly ;  and  she 
seemed  anxious  to  get  away  without  speaking.  However,  he 
came  up,  and  shook  hands  with  her,  and  asked,  in  his  old 
friendly  way,  how  she  was.  She  answered  him  very  coldly ; 
and,  saying  that  he  probably  wanted  to  speak  to  me,  was  go- 
ing off  by  herself. 

"  Don't  go  away  like  that,  Polly,"  said  he. 

"  At  least  let  me  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

"  There  now,"  he  said,  with  a  peculiar  smile,  "  are  ir.y  two 
best  friends — about  the  only  people  I  care  for — in  league 
against  me,  and  going  to  cut  me  !  Have  I  deserved  it  ?  At 
any  rate  tell  me  what  I  am  accused  of." 

"  I  don't  accuse  you  of  anything,  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  said 
Polly,  in  a  low  voice,  "  but  I  wish  to  go  home." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  a  strange  look  in  his 
face — a  look  of  infinite  compassion  and  tenderness.  I 
thought  he  would  have  seized  her  hand.  But  he  only  said,  in 
a  graver  voice — 

"  Don't  let  any  misunderstanding  remain  between  us  three. 
Life  is  not  long  enough  that  we  should  waste  it  in  quarrels ; 
and  friends  are  not  so  plentiful  that  we  can  afford  to  throw 
them  off.  Let  us  sit  down  on  this  seat.  There  now.  As  for 
you,  Ted,  I  will  bring  you  to  your  senses  in  a  moment.  You 
misunderstood  entirely  what  I  meant  about  Miss  Lesley.  But 
say  that  you  didn't ;  and  I  profess  myself  all  the  same  very 
sorry,  and  I  will  never  say  anything  against  her  again.  It 
was  entirely  for  your  sake  that  I  spoke  :  you  will  find  that  out 
some  day,  when  you  know  both  -her  and  me  better.  I  say 
that  I  regret  having  said  what  I  did :  will  that  do  ? " 

I  nodded. 

"  Shall  we  be  friends,  then  ? " 

"  Certainly;  I  don't  see  how  we  could  have  been  anything 
else  under  any  circumstances.  But  your  conduct  towards  her 
is  a  mystery  to  me.  You  say  that  some  day  I  shall  think 
otherwise  about  her.  You  don't  suppose  I  am  in  love  with 
her?  But,  so  far  as  I  do  know  her,  I  know  you  do  her  a 
great  injustice,  and  last  night  what  you  said  was  simply — 
.  "  There,  there,"  he  said,  "  we'll  have  no  more  about  that. 
I  regret  it ;  and  you  will  think  no  more  about  it.  Is  it  a  bar- 
gain ?" 

"  I  am  only  too  glad  to  be  friends  with  you  again  on  any 
terms ;  but  it  is  you  who  will  think  otherwise  in  time — unless 
your  present  opinion  of  her  is  only  a  pretence." 


POLLY  AND  HE.  89 

••  Ail  now  for  you,  Polly;  what  have  I  done  to  you  that 
you  should  try  to  avoid  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  Mr.  Heatherleigh,"  said  Polly,  casting 
down  her  eyes  ;  "  and  you  know  it." 

"  Why,  you  used  to  be  as  frank  with  me  as  the  daylight, 
Polly,"  he  said.  "  When  I  came  around  the  park  in  search 
of  Ted,  and  when  young  Cartwright,  who  saw  you  both,  told 
me  you  had  come  in  here,  I  said  to  myself  that  I  should  have 
an  ally  in  bringing  him  to  reason.  Instead  of  which  I  have 
both  of  you  to  argue  with ;  and  the  mischief  is  that  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  we  have  to  argue  about.  You  are  not  in  love 
with  Bonnie  Lesley,  Polly  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  You  forget  how  we  parted  last,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  me  ? "  he  said,  taking  her 
hand. 

She  drew  her  hand  away,  and  said — 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  you,  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  of  course, 
but — but  I  don't  wish  you  to  speak  to  me  any  more — " 

She  hastily  rose  from  her  seat,  and  left,  with  her  back  turned 
to  us.  He  would  have  followed  her ;  but  I  restrained  him. 

"Don't  shame  her  any  more,"  I  said ;  "she  is  crying." 

He  bit  his  lip,  and  sat  silent  for  a  moment. 

"That old  idiot !  "  he  muttered  ;  "  why  should  her  nonsense 
be  regarded  by  us  who  are  sane  ?  " 

"  By  and  by  Polly  will  have  forgotten  much  of  what  her 
mother  said,  and  may  not  be  ashamed  to  meet  you;  but  at 
present — " 

"Well,  at  present?"  he  said;  "wasn't  she  chatting  just 
as  usual  to  you  when  I  came  up  ? " 

"That  is  another  matter,"  I  said,  looking  hard  at  him. 

He  did  not  seem  to  draw  any  inference  from  the  words  : 
he  was  staring  at  the  path,  drawing  lines  on  the  gravel  with 
his  stick.  Eventually  I  persuaded  him  to  go  over  to  his 
rooms,  saying  that  I  would  follow  him. 

Then  I  went  in  search  of  Polly,  and  found  her. 

"  Is  he  gone  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes."  I  said. 

She  pressed  my  hand  ;  and  we  went  slowly  towards  the 
gate,  without  a  word. 

"  Really,"  I  said  to  her,  in  crossing  over  the  park  on  our 
way  home,  "  you  put  too  much  importance  on  what  passed 
that  night.  Heatherleigh  understands  that  your  mother  did 
not  know  what  she  was  saying;  and  he  is  very  sorry  that  it 


90  KILMENY. 

should  have  occurred,  and  is  vexed  that  it  should  alter  in  any 
way  our  old  relations.  Don't  you  remember  the  jolly  even- 
ings, Polly,  when  we  three  used  to  sit  all  by  ourselves  after 
supper,  and  chat  until  near  midnight  ?  You  know,  the  autumn 
nights  will  be  coming  on  again ;  what  shall  we  do  with  our- 
selves if  we  are  never  to  meet  as  we  used  to  do  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Ted,"  she  said,  "  but  that  is  all  over." 

"  It  isn't  all  over,  Polly.  When  Heatherleigh  finally  comes 
back  from  Brighton — " 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  ever  enter  his  house  again,  consid- 
ering how  I  left  it  ?  "  she  said,  with  just  a  touch  of  indigna- 
nation  in  her  voice.  "  Do  you  think  a  woman  has  no  sort  of 
self-respect,  even  although  she  is  a  model  ?  Oh,  I  hope  I 
shall  never,  never  see  him  again — for  it  kills  me  to  think  of 
his  standing  in  that  room  and  listening  to  all  the  cruel  things 
she  said  of  me." 

I  saw  her  mouth  quivering,  and  her  breath  came  short  and 
quick.  Then  she  said — 

"  You  told  me  you  had  a  picture  at  your  lodgings,  Tecl." 

"Yes." 

"  Could  I — could  I  be  of  any  use  to  you  ?  We  are  both 
poor,  you  know — at  least  I  am ;  but  I  have  plenty  of  time, 
and  I  should  like  to  come  and  sit  for  you.  Will  you  let  me 
do  that  in  return  for  your  kindness  ?  " 

"  But  why  should  you  cry  about  it,  Polly  ?  "  said  I. 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  the  poor  girl's  cheeks. 
As  we  passed  along,  I  knew  that  Heatherleigh  was  watching 
us  from  under  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  trees;  but  she  did 
not  see  him. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MR.  ALFRED  BURNHAM. 

I  WENT  down  to  Brighton  again  with  Heatherleigh,  and  re- 
entered  that  strange  world  of  indolent  enjoyment,  of  luxury 
and  gayety,  of  day-dreaming  by  the  sea,  of  listening  to  Bonnie 
Lesley's  pretty  voice,  and  looking  at  the  pretty  wonder  of  her 
child-like  eyes. 

What  chiefly  astonished  me  in  this  new  world  was  the  life 
led  by  the  young  men — the  young  Olympians  of  handsome 
figure,  of  faultless  dress,  and  unlimited  command  of  money, 
who  drove  their  mail-phaetons  in  such  splendid  style,  and 


.I/A'.  Al.J-RED  /.Wi'.\ 7/.-/. J/.  91 

had  such  a  fine  indifference  to  the  presence  of  waiters.  Rath- 
er against  my  will,  I  was  dragged  into  their  society  by  Heath- 
erleigh,  who  knew  several  of  them  who  were  living  at  various 
hotels.  So  far  as  I  was  concerned,  I  could  not  help  admiring 
the  free  and  easy  manner  with  which  they  used  to  try  to  con- 
vince me  that  I  was  their  equal.  I  was  too  much  impressed 
by  their  manner  of  living,  however,  to  think  of  myself  in  the 
matter  :  it  was  enough  for  me  to  watch  the  actions  of  those 
young  favorites  of  fortune,  with  their  irresistible  coolness 
and  self-possession,  and  their  unconscionable  expenditure  in 
flowers,  gloves,  and  cigars.  How  little  they  thought  of  toss- 
ing up  as  to  who  should  pay  for  a  dinner  for  four  or  five  of 
them,  which  cost,  at  a  moderate  computation,  eighteen  shil- 
lings a  head  !  How  carelessly  they  would  hand  a  half-sover- 
eign to  the  leader  of  the  band  which  used  to  play  in  front  of 
the  hotel  at  night !  With  what  indifference  they  wrote  off 
to  Poole  to  send  them  down  a  couple  of  suits  of  clothes  ! 
And  with  what  a  royal  magnanimity  they  dispensed  shillings 
and  half-crowns  to  anybody  who  did  them  the  smallest  service! 

There  was  one  among  them  who  was  never  guilty  of  these 
thoughtless  acts  of  generosity  or  extravagance  ;  and  that  was 
Mr.  Alfred  Burnham.  Miss  Hester  Burnham,  I  heard,  had 
come  down,  and  was  living  with  her  aunt — an  old  lady  who 
had  a  large  house  at  the  extreme  east  end  of  Brighton.  This 
lady  I  had  never  seen  ;  but  I  knew  she  was  not  very  favorably 
disposed  either  to  her  nephew,  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  or  to  his 
father  and  her  brother-in-law,  Colonel  Burnham.  Such,  at 
least,  was  the  gossip  down  in  Buckinghamshire,  and  it  was  so 
far  corroborated  by  the  fact  that  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  instead 
of  living  at  her  house,  stayed  at  a  hotel. 

I  detested  that  man,  and  everything  I  saw  and  heard  of  him 
at  Brighton  increased  the  bad  impression  I  received  from  his 
cold  and  calculating  eyes,  his  thin  lips,  and  selfish,  hard  face. 
He  was  handsome  enough,  in  one  way — indeed,  he  looked 
like  the  best  type  of  young  Englishman,  with  the  emotional 
and  moral  qualities  withdrawn.  He  had  a  good  physique, 
good  complexion,  and  excellent  manners,  of  a  somewhat  in- 
different and  blase  kind.  To  women  he  could  be  exceedingly 
agreeable,  when  he  chose  ;  and  then  he  would  turn  away,  with 
a  half-concealed  look  of  weariness,  as  if  he  rather  pitied  their 
folly  in  being  pleasant  to  him.  In  the  company  of  men,  he 
was  chiefly  remarkable  for  his  constantly  watchful  habit  of 
making  ihe  most  of  current  circumstances — of  winning  bets, 
and  extricating  himself  from  the  necessity  of  paying  anything. 
He  did  not  seem  to  care  to  shine  in  any  way.  He  never 


92  KILMENY. 

boasted  of  anything — not  even  his  successes  with  women. 
He  acknowledged  himself  ignorant  of  politics  ;  was  rather 
inclined  to  be  a  Conservative,  as  he  considered  the  Radicals 
"  such  a  pack  of  d — d  cads ;  "  he  hunted  sometimes,  but  he 
had  no  good  runs  or  exciting  escapes  to  recount;  he  shot 
sometimes,  but  cared  nothing  about  it. 

Here  is  a  little  incident  which  I  used  to  think  revealed  his 
nature  admirably. 

He  and  two  or  three  others,  with  Heatherleigh  and  myself, 
were  going  into  the  Grand  Hotel.  I  may  say  here,  par  par- 
enf/icse,  that  I  had  no  scruple  about  meeting  him.  I  did  not 
care  whether  he  remembered  or  not  that  he  had  given  me  half 
a  crown  by  way  of  alms.  I  disliked  him,  and  had  there  been 
any  disposition  on  his  part  to  recall  that  incident  at  the  foot 
of  White-cross  Hill,  I  should  not  have  been  ashamed  of  it  in 
his  presence.  As  it  was,  he  made  no  difference  between  me 
and  the  others,  ecxept  that  he  never  tried  to  make  bets  with 
me. 

As  we  were  going  up  the  steps,  I  saw  him  linger  behind, 
and  drop  a  stone  on  the  ground.  I  could  not  understand  why 
a  man  should  have  been  carrying  a  stone  in  his  pocket,  but 
paid  no  particular  attention  to  the  fact.  We  went  into  the 
billiard-room,  somebody  having  proposed  that  there  should  be 
a  game  of  pool  before  lunch.  Some  played,  others  looked 
on,  and  bet  upon  who  should  divide.  I. happened  to  sit  clown 
beside  a  young  barrister,  with  whom  I  had  become  acquainted. 

"  I  fancy  you  noticed  Burnham  drop  a  stone  as  we  came  in," 
said  he  to  me. 

"I  did." 

"  Come  out  with  me,  and  we'll  have  a  lark." 

We  left  the  billiard-room  together,  and  when  we  got  outside 
he  picked  up  the  stone  which  Alfred  Burnham  had  dropped. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  he's  up  to  some  trick.  He  means  to  bet 
about  that  stone — either  the  distance  it  lies  from  the  pavement, 
or  its  weight,  or  something  like  that.  He's  always  at  it ;  and 
he's  not  above  trying  any  sort  of  dodge  if  he  thinks  he  can 
get  a  fiver  out  of  you.  Suppose  we  get  a  bit  of  string  and 
measure  how  far  the  stone  lies  from  the  pavement,  and  then 
we  can  have  it  weighed  ?  " 

He  put  the  stone  down  again,  and  we  accurately  measured 
the  distance.  Then  we  went  into  the  tobacconist's  shop  at 
the  corner  and  had  the  stone  weighed — seven  ounces  thirteen 
drains  was  the  result.  Finally  the  stone  was  put  back  in  its 
place,  and  we  returned  to  the  billiard-room. 

Burnham  was  in  high  spirits  ;  he  had  won  a  sovereign,  bet- 


J/A*.  ALFRED  BURNffAAf.  93 

ting  three  to  one  that  1  leathcrlcigh  would  divide  the  last  pool. 
He  offered  to  toss  double  or  quits  ;  but  the  offer  was  declined. 

\Ve  went  into  the  room  in  which  luncheon  had  been  pre- 
pared for  us ;  and  sat  down  at  the  prettily  decorated  table, 
with  its  colored  claret-glasses,  its  vases  of  flowers,  and — not 
least  attractive — its  handsome  wine-coolers,  out  of  which  the 
rounded  heads  and  golden  necks  of  two  champagne-bottles 
peeped.  And  out  there  the  gay  crowd  rolled  past  in  its  hand- 
some carriages,  and  there  was  a  glow  of  brilliantly  tinted  par- 
asols, and  bonnets  and  dresses,  along  the  pavement;  and 
then,  out  beyond  that  again,  lay  the  great  white  sea  and  the 
sunlight,  and  the  far-off  specks  of  sails. 

Heatherleigh  was  sitting  next  to  me,  and  I  begged  him  to 
tell  me  whose  guest  I  was. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said ;  "  it  doesn't  matter." 

"Don't  you  know  whose  wine  you  are  drinking?  " 

"  I  believe  a  person  of  the  name  of  Roderer  is  the  excellent 
author  of  it.  Don't  distress  yourself.  We  were  hustled  in 
here  indiscriminately  by  two  or  three  men,  and  if  there  is  any 
one  of  them  whose  bread  and  salt  you  would  rather  not  eat, 
we  shall  forbid  his  paying  his  share.  Have  an  honest  care  of 
your  stomach,  Ted ;  and  leave  Alfred  Buruham  alone." 

"  I  wasn't  talking  of  Alfred  Burnham,"  I  said. 

"No,  but  you  were  thinking  of  him  when  you  asked  that 
question.  There  is  old  Ebury,  at  the  end  of  the  table,  preach- 
ing about  the  benefits  to  civilization  that  the  Italian  canal, 
in  which  he  is  a  shareholder,  is  going  to  produce.  He  may 
talk  about  the  Italian  canal  till  doomsday ;  but  it  is  his  own 
intestinal  canal  he  is  thinking  of." 

At  this  moment  I  overheard  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham  beginning 
to  talk  rather  loudly  about  the  fun  of  making  absolutely  ab- 
surd bets. 

"  Why  do  you  treat  Alfred  Burnham  so  defiantly — so  cava- 
lierly," continued  Heatherleigh.  "  Has  he  done  you  any  in- 
jury ?  Why,  you  speak  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  beggar — " 

"  That  is  my  role,"  I  said  laughing. 

"  Ah,  I  remember,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  But  you  don't 
blame  him  for  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  blame  him  for  anything — I  dislike  him  ;  and  I 
shouldn't  eat  or  drink  a  morsel  or  drop  at  this  table  if  I  thought 
he  was  going  to  pay  for  it." 

"  Be  at  rest  on  that  score,  Ted  ;  Alfred  Burnham  never  pays. 
It  is  a  point  of  honor  with  him ;  and  I  am  glad  there  is  one 
thing  on  which  he  follows  a  principle." 

Burnham  was  now  engaging  the  attention  of  the  men  near- 


94  KILMENY. 

est  him  by  describing  the  various  bets  he  had  seen  made. 
The  running  of  rain-drops  on  panes,  the  motions  of  flies,  the 
chasing  of  waves — anything  in  which  no  possible  calculation 
could  be  made  he  preferred. 

"  For  instance,"  he  said,  getting  up  and  holding  his  table- 
napkin  in  his  hand  (although  lunch  was  not  nearly  over),  "  I 
shouldn't  mind  having  a  bet  about  the  weight  of  anything  ly- 
ing out  there — a  stone,  or  a  bit  of  dry  stick." 

With  that  he  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  Are  you  good  at  guessing  right  ? "  asked  my  friend,  the 
barrister,  whose  name  was  Tilley. 

"  I  take  my  chance,  like  everybody  else,"  said  Burnham. 
"  For  example,  I  will  bet  you  anything  you  like  that  I  will  go 
nearer  the  weight  of  that  stone  lying  out  there  than  you 
will." 

"  Sit  down,  you  fellows,  and  drop  your  betting,"  said  some 
one. 

Burnham,  however,  ordered  the  waiter  to  go  out  and  fetch 
in  this  particular  stone.  He  brought  it,  and  it  was  handed  to 
Tilley. 

"  I  don't  mind  having  a  bet  with  you,"  said  he. 

"  What  shall  it  be  ?  "  returned  Burnham,  carelessly.  "  Ten, 
twenty,  fifty,  a  hundred  ?  " 

"  Anything  you  like — say  fifty." 

"All  right." 

By  this  time  everybody  at  table  was  listening. 

"  Send  it  off  to  be  weighed,"  said  Tilley,  "  and  make  the 
waiter  bring  back  the  weight  on  a  bit  of  paper.  You  and  I 
must  write  clown  our  notion  of  the  weight,  and  hand  the  two 
slips  to  Heatherleigh." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Burnham,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  suppose  we 
must  be  particular  when  fifty  pounds  are  in  the  case.  Or, 
what  do  you  say,  shall  we  double  ? " 

"  I  don't  mind.'1 

A  minute  or  two  afterwards  the  waiter  returned,  and  gave 
Heatherleigh  the  third  slip  of  paper. 

"  I  find,"  said  Heatherleigh,  speaking  with  official  gravity, 
"that  Burnham  guesses  the  weight  of  this  interesting  piece  of 
stone  at  eight  ounces,  which  is  a  very  near  guess,  as  it  weighs 
seven  ounces  thirteen  drams.  But  I  find  that  Tilley  is  even 
n  e  arer ;  for  he  guesses  it  at  seven  ounces  thirteen  drams.  Accord- 
ingly, he  has  won  the  bet." 

Heatherleigh  must  have  seen  through  the  whole  affair  when 
Tilley's  paper  was  handed  to  him  ;  but  he  made  the  announce- 
ment quite  gravely.  It  was  received  by  the  others  with  an 


J/A'.  ALFRED  DURX11AM.  95 

explosion  of  laughter.  Burnhani  was  beside  himself  with  rage  ; 
for  not  only  had  he  lost  the  money,  but  he  saw  that  his  neigh- 
bors perceived  he  had  been  caught  in  his  own  trap.  He 
tried  to  laugh,  and  said  to  Tilley — 

"  You  think  that  a  good  joke  ? " 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  Tilley,  who  was  laughing  heartily. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think,"  shouted  Burnham,  entirely  los- 
ing command  of  himself,  "  I  think  you  are  a  d — cl  swindler." 

Tilley  was  about  to  drink  some  claret  out  of  a  tumbler. 
The  next  second  the  wine  was  thrown  into  Burnham's  face. 
Then  ensued  a  pretty  scrimmage,  two  or  three  men  holding 
Burnham  back  by  main  force,  and  everybody  begging  every- 
body else  to  be  quiet.  Tilley  stood  calm  and  collected  at  the 
table.  At  length  Burnham,  vowing  unheard-of  things,  was 
persuaded  to  go  to  his  bedroom  and  change  his  stained  waist- 
coat ;  while  Tilly  sat  down,  and  asked  if  anybody  was  willing  to 
cash  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham's  note  of  hand  for  a  hundred  pounds. 

"  I  will — when  you  get  it,"  said  his  neighbor. 

Burnham  did  not  reappear ;  and  Tilley — who  made  no  secret 
of  the  way  in  which  he  had  trapped  his  opponent — finished  his 
lunch  in  peace.  From  that  day  I  noticed  that  the  men  rather 
fought  shy  of  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham.  When,  through  habit,  he 
offered  to  bet,  they  declined. 

"  Lucky  for  him  the  Lewisons  have  not  heard  of  that  prank," 
said  Heatherleigh  to  me. 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  visit  there,  and  it  is 
only  there  he  has  a  chance  of  meeting  your  friend,  Miss 
Hester." 

"  Then  you  think—" 

"  That  he  means  to  become  an  honest  man  so  soon  as  he 
can  marry  her  and  get  her  money  to  live  upon.  They  say 
these  two  are  engaged." 

Heatherleigh  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

4<  She  reminds  me  so  much  sometimes  of  that  girl — whom 
— whom  I  told  you  I  used  to  know.  She  has  the  same  sort 
of  manner,  and  her  eyes  have  the  same  strange  expression. 
Sometimes  I  look  at  her  and  think  that —  Bah  !  nonsense  ! 
What  is  she  if  she  is  capable  of  thinking  of  marrying  him  ?  " 


96  KILMENY. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

AT   SHOREHAM. 

SOME  local  club  or  society  having  resolved  to  hold  its  annual 
fete  at  the  Swiss  Gardens,  Shoreham,  Mr.  Lewison,  who  knew 
several  of  the  members,  was  asked  to  form  a  party  to  go  there. 
He  accordingly  did  so ;  and  Heatherleigh  and  I  were  among 
the  number  invited.  Some  started  from  Mr.  Lewison's 
house ;  others  drove  over  by  themselves,  in  their  own  car- 
riages. Among  the  former  were  Heatherleigh  and  myself, 
and,  as  the  party  was  successively  told  off,  it  happened  that 
we  were  ordered  to  accompany  Miss  Lesley. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  morning,  with  a  cool  breeze  blowing 
in  from  the  sea  that  tempered  the  fierce  heat  of  the  sunlight. 
Miss  Lesley  was  looking  particularly  handsome ;  and  she  was 
particularly  gracious.  Even  Heatherleigh's  coldness  seemed 
to  be  thawed  by  her  obvious  desire  to  be  pleasant  and  friend- 
ly ;  and  he  chatted  with  her  in  a  better-tempered  fashion  than 
I  had  ever  seen  him  exhibit  towards  her.  Once  or  twice, 
however,  when  he  happened  to  say  something  to  me  about 
painting  or  poetry,  or  some  similar  topic,  and  when  she  joined 
the  conversation,  he  turned  to  her  with  a  polite  and  cold  atten- 
tion, which  plainly  said,  "  I  don't  choose  to  have  you  talk  on 
such  subjects." 

This  was  unfair ;  because  again  and  again  I  had  noticed 
in  the  girl  a  desire  to  appreciate  and  understand  these  things, 
which  deserved  every  encouragement.  I  have  already  said 
that  it  seemed  to  me  the  artistic  side  of  her  nature  was  singu- 
larly unimpressionable — that  she  seemed  incapable  of  receiv- 
ing artistic  influences ;  but  surely  it  was  all  the  m'ore  credita- 
ble to  her  that  she  should  be  anxious  to  be  able  to  take  an 
interest  in  such  matters.  Even  to  assume  the  interest  she 
did  not  feel  was  in  itself  a  virtue.  Most  women  in  her  posi- 
tion would  have  used  the  prerogative  given  them  by  their 
surpassing  loveliness  to  despise  what  they  could  not  compre- 
hend, and  banish  any  mention  of  it  from  their  circle.  To 
hold  in  subjection  a  court  of  lovers,  to  look  like  some  glori- 
fied Cleopatra,  would  have  been  sufficient  for  them  ;  and  they 
would  have  laughed  at  and  scouted  the  intellectual  cravings 
which  they  could  not  understand,  even  as  modern  interpreta- 
tion will  have  it  that  the  object  of  Pygmalion's  love  outraged 
and  disappointed  the  passionate  longings  of  her  creator. 

When  we  reached  Shoreham,  we  found  that  a  number  of 


ATSHGREITAM.  97 

• 

people  had  arrived,  and  had  already  become  familiar  with 
what  must  have  been  to  them  the  very  novel  amusements  of 
the  gardens.  Here  some  young  girls  in  gauzy  white,  with 
red  roses  in  their  hair  and  pink  gloves  on  their  hands,  were 
practising  archery  in  a  reckless  fashion,  and  getting  extraor- 
dinary compliments  from  one  or  two  gentlemen  who  were 
their  attendants  whenever  chance  brought  a  stray  arrow  near 
the  target.  There  a  party  was  playing  at  croquet,  and  exhib- 
iting to  bystanders  a  much  greater  skill  in  the  fine  art  of  flir- 
tation than  in  sending  a  ball  through  the  bell.  Then  there 
were  the  quiet  walks  through  snatches  of  copsewood  (with 
some  painted  pasteboard  figure  suddenly  staring  at  you  from 
among  the  bushes),  the  greenhouses,  the  flower-gardens,  the 
lake,  and  what  not,  to  attract  straggling  couples.  I  do  not 
mean  here  to  describe  the  various  amusements  that  occupied 
us  during  the  day — a  picnic  on  the  lawn  being  prominent 
among  them  ;  nor  yet  the  performance  at  the  theatre,  where 
Miss  Lesley  sat  in  the  front  of  the  gallery,  and  endeavored 
to  keep  her  numerous  gentleman  friends  from  talking  to  her 
while  the  actors  were  on  the  stage.  As  the  people  were  going 
out,  we  happened  to  get  together ;  and,  as  chance  would 
have  it,  we  carelessly  strolled  onwards  until  we  found  our- 
selves in  that  straggling  line  of  wood  which  surrounds  the 
lake. 

Here  we  walked  up  and  down  in  the  cool  of  the  beautiful 
evening,  all  around  us  the  flutter  of  green  leaves  and  the  stip 
ring  of  the  sweet  pure  air  ;  and  then,  when  we  came  to  a  gap 
in  the  trees,  we  found  a  pale  yellow  sky  overhead,  sharply 
traced  across  with  lines  of  cirrus  clouds,  gleaming  like  silver 
on  the  faint  background  of  gold  mist.  The  young  moon  was 
there,  too  ;  and  Bonnie  Lesley  turned  over  all  the  money  in 
her  pocket,  for  luck's  sake. 

"  You  artists  don't  care  to  be  rich,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
a  world  of  your  own,  and  you  are  rich  in  dreams,  and  you 
don't  care  about  us  poor  folks  out  here,  or  what  we  think  is 
pleasant  to  have." 

"  I  know  what  is  pleasant  to  have,"  I  said.  "  I  wish  I  was 
rich  and  beautiful  and  strong  and  happy,  not  for  my  own 
sake,  but  to  have  the  power  of  conferring  favor  and  pleasure. 
I  see  men  and  women  here  who  have  only  to  smile  to  confer 
a  favor :  you,  yourself — you  know  what  pleasure  it  must  give 
you  to  be  beautiful  and  bountiful  and  lovable — to  be  able  to 
gladden  the  people  around  you  with  a  look  or  a  word." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ? "  she  said,  with  a 
laugh  of  surprise. 
7 


98  AYZJ/ZwVK 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  did  not.  I  was  so  anxious  to  show 
her  what  I  considered  the  happy  position  of  rich  and  beauti- 
ful persons  that  I  had  taken  no  care  to  conceal  what  I  thought 
of  herself  personally.  This  I  told  her  frankly. 

"  You  think  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  good-looking  and  all 
this  that  you  say  ?  What  if  you  can't  please  the  very  people 
you  want  to  please  ?  Why,  if  I  were  to  believe  the  nonsense 
you  talked,  I  should  be  able  at  once  to  overwhelm  you  with 
kindness." 

"You  do  that  now,"  I  said,  truthfully  enough. 

"  Is  what  you  say  true  ?  "  she  said,  turning  her  large  eyes, 
full  of  a  pretty  astonishment,  upon  me.  "Is  it  really  of  any 
concern  to  you  that  I  should  do  everything  in  my  power  to 
please  you  ?  If  I  told  you  now  that — that  there  was  nothing 
I  wouldn't  do—" 

With  that  she  laughed  lightly. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  we  are  drifting  into  confessions,  and 
there  are  sure  to  be  people  walking  around  this  way,  who 
would  imagine — " 

And  here  she  laughed  again,  and  turned  away  from  me, 
and  tripped  down  the  bank  to  the  margin  of  the  lake.  Before 
I  knew  what  she  was  about,  she  had  jumped  into  a  boat,  and, 
lifting  one  of  the  oars,  had  pushed  out  from  the  bank. 

"  How  far  would  you  jump  in  order  to  have  the  pleasure  oi 
coming  and  talking  to  me  ? "  she  said. 

"  Let  the  boat  stop  where  it  is,  and  I  will  jump  from  the 
bridge." 

"  You  silly  boy,  you  would  break  your  neck.  See,  I  will 
be  merciful,  and  you  shall  break  your  neck  for  me  another 
time." 

"  When  I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

"Just  so." 

She  pushed  the  stern  of  the  boat  towards  the  shore  ;  I  got 
in  and  took  the  oars.  We  paddled  about  a  little — passed  un- 
der the  bridge  and  out  upon  the  larger  lake,  which  was  now 
growing  crimson  under  the  evening  sky.  Out  in  the  middle 
of  the  water  we  allowed  the  boat  to  float  idly,  and  Bonnie 
Lesley  bade  me  come  and  sit  beside  her  that  she  might  talk 
to  me. 

"  Whatever  put  that  strange  notion  into  your  head  about 
wishing  to  be  rich  and  so  forth,  in  order  to  be  able  to  please 
people  ?  The  only  use  in  riches  I  see  is  that  they  make  you 
independent.  For  instance,  if  I  had  no  money,  I  should 
have  to  marry  a  man  who  could  keep  up  a  house  in  a  certain 
style  ;  but  I  shall  have  a  little  money,  you  know,  when  I 


of  a-r,  and  I  can  look  all  around  my  friends  and  say 
to  myself,  Well,  there  are  one  or  two  who,  1  think,  would  like 
to  marry  me,  but  I  shall  wait  until  I  get  desperately  fond  ot" 
some  one,  and  then,  if  he  is  fond  of  me,  I  can  marry  him, 
even  although  he  is  a  beggar.  Now  that  is  fortunate." 

"  It  would  be,  for  the  beggar." 

••  Why  not  for  me  ?  Surely  you  have  a.  better  opinion  of 
me  than  to  think  that  I  have  any  sympathy  with  the  common 
notions  about  marriage  ?  Oh,  I  am  more  romantic  than  you 
imagine,  and  if  you  would  only  try  me,  I  mean  if  you  would 
not  misunderstand  me,  I  might —  But  no  matter.  Do  you 
remember  what  Queen  Elizabeth  wrote  in  reply  to  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh's  lines  about  his  fearing  to  rise  so  far  lest  he  might 
fall  ?  She  was  right,  too,  was  she  not  ?  Isn't  it  the  business 
of  men  to  dare,  and  of  women  to  give  ?  "  She  uttered  these 
last  words  in  a  tow  voice,  with  her  head  bent  down. 

Inadvertently  I  took  her  hand  in  mine,  and  she  did  not 
withdraw  it. 

The  boat,  meanwhile,  had  drifted  back  almost  to  the 
bridge,  and,  at  this  moment,  I  looked  up  and  saw  Hester 
Burnham  standing  there  alone.  Her  eyes  met  mine. 

Did  I  ever  tell  you  what  those  eyes  were  like — the  large, 
dark  pupils,  set  in  the  tender  blue-gray,  and  shaded  by  long 
eyelashes — eyes  full  of  a  strange,  intense  life,  that  was  yet 
tempered  by  the  calm,  wise,  kind  expression  of  them  ? 

I  met  that  earnest  look  for  a  moment,  and  I  withdrew  my 
my  hand  from  Bonnie  Lesley's  fingers.  I  knew  that  between 
me  and  her,  between  me  and  any  possibility  of  such  hope  and 
happiness  as  I  had  dared  to  think  she  suggested,  there  lay 
something  as  wide  and  as  sad.  as  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BURNHAM  PARK. 

I  WAS  called  from  Brighton  to  see  my  Uncle  Job,  who  was 
thought  to  be  dying.  It  was  at  his  urgent  request  that  I  set 
off  immediately  after  getting  the  letter ;  and  on  the  evening 
of  the  following  day  I  was  approaching  the  well-known  valley 
down  in  the  heart  of  Bucks. 

How  different  the  place  looked  now  !  The  fields  and 
meadows  were  laden  with  the  bountiful  summer  produce  ;  and 
the  great  beech-woods  that  lay  along  the  successive  hills  were 


100  KILMENY. 

smothered  in  thick  leafage.  I  entered  these  woods  as  the 
pheasants  were  getting  to  roost,  and  as  the  wide  plain  that 
stretched  over  to  Oxfordshire  was  beginning  to  fade  into  a 
blue  mist.  Just  above  the  horizon,  however,  lay  a  splendid 
sunset — the  sun  himself  being  down,  and  the  clouds  above 
gathering  into  a  large,  luminous  fan-shell  of  gold.  Along  the 
horizon  lay  a  swathe  of  dark  purple,  broken  by  one  gleaming 
line  of  blood-red,  forming,  as  it  were,  the  base  of  the  great 
shell ;  and  then  above  that  came  the  circled  lines  of  gold, 
dying  into  a  faint  green  overhead.  By  the  time  I  reached 
my  uncle's  up-lying  farm  these  lines  had  changed  into  a  dull 
crimson,  and  the  wooded  western  country  was  growing  dark. 

When  I  went  inside,  my  mother  and  father  were  with  my 
uncle.  At  his  desire,  they  left  the  room,  that  I  might  go  in 
and  see  old  Job  Ives  alone.  My  mother  kissed  me  as  usual ; 
but  I  noticed  that  my  father  shook  hands  with  me  ceremo- 
niously, and  strove  to  be  formal  and  polite.  Could  the  man's 
reverence  for  my  mother  go  further  than  that  ?  He  looked 
upon  me  as  a  gentleman,  because  I  was  her  son,  and  he 
seemed  to  think  it  his  duty  to  her  that  he  should  be  respect- 
ful towards  me.  I  scarcely  dared  quarrel  with  this  feeling 
(absurd  as  it  was  in  its  demonstrations  towards  myself),  for  I 
recognized  the  great  love  and  affection  from  which  it  sprang. 
If  my  mother's  marriage  was  a  mesalliance*,  it  was  the  happi- 
est ever  made  in  the  world ;  and  I  know  two  people  at  least 
who  never  regretted  it. 

My  Uncle  Job  was  down  with  fever,  and  a  very  ghastly 
spectacle  he  presented — his  grizzly  beard,  his  pale  face,  and 
cropped  hair. 

"  Shut  the  dower,  Ted,"  said  he. 

I  shut  it. 

"Are  we  all  alone  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  suppose  I  be  goin'  to  die?  " 

"  I  hope  not.  Uncle  Job,"  I  said. 

"Now,  Ted,"  he  said,  rather  querulously,  but  in  a  low, 
gasping  voice,  "  I  have  always  'ad  a  great^  respect  for  you 
as  a  boy  and  mahn ;  you've  always  bin  so  fair  and  honest ; 
and  doan't  you  be  goin'  now  to  talk  that  darned  nonsense 
about  a  man  bein'  afeard  to  die,  and  thinkin'  what's  a  comin' 
to  'im.  I  tell  ye,  Ted,  as  you  get  so  infernal  weak  and  list- 
liss  that  ye  doan't  care  whether  ye  die  or  no  ;  and  if  I  be 
agoin'  to  die,  I'm  darned  if  I  care.  I  want  none  o'  your 
pahrsons  to  frighten  me  wi'  ghost-stories,  as  if  I  wur  a  babby  ; 
and  I  want  no  'umbug  on  my  tombstone,  if  they  gie  me  one. 


BURNHAM  yv/.v//.  101 

The  tombstones  be  nice  things,  bain't  they? — saayin' as  how 
folks  are  grieved  'cause  their  friends  r.;«c  ^om 
'appiness  !  It  makes  me  think,  \vlieu  i'sce  their  grief  is 
honest,  that  they  are  either  darned  jealous  o'  their  friends  get- 
tin'  the  'appiness  first,  or  that  they're  not  so  sure  about  it 
as  they  pretend.  And  if  ye  look  around,  Ted,  at  the  haverage 
goin's-on  o'  people,  it's  no  wonder  folks  should  ha'  some 
doubt  about  everybody  goin'  to  'eaven.  What  I  says  is,  I've 
done  my  duty  by  the  fahrm  and  by  my  relations,  and  I  bain't 
afeard  o'  nothin'.  Though  I  do  hope  them  wuts  '11  turn  out 
right." 

Here  my  mother  entered  to  give  Job  his  periodical  dose  of 
quinine,  or  some  such  medicine.  He  muttered  a  word  or  two 
about  his  wishing  to  be  let  die  in  peace  ;  but  he  took  the  medi- 
cine, and  only  cursed  once  and  feebly  about  the  taste  of  it. 
So  soon  as  my  mother  was  gone,  he  recommenced  his  chance 
observations  on  his  having  done  his  duty,  a  point  he  insisted 
on.  Whence  Uncle  Job  had  borrowed  his  notions  of  duty 
was  a  puzzle.  He  recognized  no  authority  beyond  his  own 
idea  of  what  he  ought  to  have  clone,  and  he  looked  for  no 
recompense.  He  had  done  his  duty,  and  he  knew  it,  and 
wished  to  be  let  alone  by  parsons. 

"  Sure  we  be  aloan,  Ted  ?  "  he  murmured. 

"Yes." 

"  D'ye  know  why  I  sent  for  ye  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  It  was  to  tell  ye  somethin'  I  never  told  to  them.  I  didn't 
want  to  have  the  pahrson  a-botherin'  about  me,  and  all  the 
darned  idiots  in  the  place  talkin'  lies  about  my  convarsion ; 
but  I  wanted  you  to  come,  for  I'd  something  to  tell  ye,  and  I 
bain't  so  weak  as  not  to  be  able  to — " 

Here  Uncle  Job  ceased,  and  lay  still  for  some  seconds. 
His  eyes  were  half  shut,  and  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  about 
something.  What  was  the  confession  which  this  old  heathen 
was  about  to  make  ?  The  villagers  would  have  believed  any 
evil  of  Job  Ives ;  for  they  knew  that  he  said  bitter  things 
about  parsons,  and  sneered  at  their  church-going,  and  walked 
about  on  Sunday  morning  in  his  oldest  clothes,  with  a  clay 
pipe  in  his  mouth.  Not  the  old  Major  himself,  who  had  re- 
fused to  be  buried  in  consecrated  ground,  would  have  been 
so  readily  accredited  with  evil  doings.  Indeed,  more  or  less 
vaguely,  they  suspected  Job  Ives  to  be  capable  of  any  crime 
— except  one.  Even  in  Great  Missenden  I  scarcely  believe 
there  was  a  man  who  would  have  dared  to  say  that  my  uncle 
was  secretly  a  Roman  Catholic. 


102  KJLMENY. 

"  That  darned  doctor,"  he  said,  "  makes  believe  as  he  knows 
wnat'tf  the  niaht;er-wir  me':  but  he  knows  no  more  nor  I  know. 
It's  their  business- to -make  believe.  I  remember  as  there 
was  a  feller — a  professor  he  called  hisself — came  down  to 
Missenden  to  explain  things  to  us  poor  hidiots  in  the  country, 
and  he  gave  a  lecture.  D'ye  know  what  he  wanted  us  to  be- 
lieve ? — why,  that  the  water  as  rises  in  a  pump  is  made  to 
rise  by  the  pressure  of  the  air.  Darn  his  eyes ! — does  the 
air  press  on  my  hand  now  ?  But  you  see,  Ted,  they've  to 
explain  it  somehow,  them  professors;  and  one  reason's  as 
good's  another." 

Here  the  old  pagan's  ghastly  face  grinned,  as  if  to  say  old 
Job  Ives,  even  on  his  death-bed,  was  a  match  for  any  number 
of  learned  impostors. 

"  But  you  were  going  to  tell  me  something,"  I  suggested. 

I  knew  I  was  no  great  hand  at  administering  spiritual 
consolation ;  but  if  the  old  man  had  something  to  confess, 
or  had  even  some  religious  difficulty  to  propound,  I  was 
anxious  to  make  his  last  hours  as  peaceful  as  possible. 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  doan't  forget,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  Take  out  your 
pencil,  and  write  down  the  name  of  Stephen  Catlin." 

He  added  a  frightful  oath  as  he  uttered  the  name.  It  was  no 
doctrinal  point,  clearly,  on  which  he  wished  to  have  his  doubts 
resolved. 

I  did  as  he  bade  me. 

"  Ted,  that  man  Stephen  Catlin  wur  my  friend,  and  he  ruined 
the  girl  as  I  wanted  to  marry." 

A  complete  transformation  had  suddenly  came  over  the  old 
man.  As  he  uttered  the  words,  he  struggled  to  raise  himself 
on  the  bed,  his  face  became  whiter  than  ever,  and  his  eyes  actu- 
ally gleamed  with  passion.  His  voice,  too,  that  seemed  to  come 
from  the  grave,  was  shrill  and  harsh,  and  his  whole  frame  trem- 
bled. 

"  I  say  as  he  took  her  awaay  from  me,  when  we  wur  livin'  in 
Datchet,  and  she  over  in  Windsor.  She  wur  to  have  married  me, 
Ted,  and  I  caught  them  walkin'  together  one  night,  and  we  had 
a  fight— and,  thank  God !  thank  God  !  I  felled  him  down,  Ted— 
I  felled  him  down — and  he  laid  at  her  feet,  and  never  spoke  a 
word. 

He  laughed,  and  the  laugh  had  a  hollow  sound  as  it  died 
down  in  his  throat. 

"I  didn't  knoaw  then,"  he  continued,  sinking  back  on 
the  pillow,  "  as  he  didn't  mean  fairly  by  her,  or  I  should  ha' 
killed  him  thear.  It  wur  a  bad  day  for  her  when  she  met  him. 
She  and  I  were  very  comfortable  then — we  used  to  walk  along 


BURX1IAM  PARK.  103 

the  banks  o'  the  river  in  the  evenin's,  or  under  the  trees  in 
\Yimlsor  Park  ;  and  she  wur  a  sweet,  pure  thing,  Ted,  as  ever 
stepped,  wi'  a  fine,  plump  cheek,  and  a  pretty,  soft  eye.  But 
I  think  she  wur  afeard  o'  me,  for  I  never  went  to  church  wi'  her 
on  the  Sundays  ;  and  he — that's  how  he  got  acquainted  wi'  her. 
It's  a  pretty  likin'  I've  had  for  churches,  chapels,  and  pahrsons 
since  then.  Howsever,  when  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  and 
the  poor  lass  had  to  go  to  London  for  shame  o'  people  talkin' 
of  her,  he  packs  his  traps  and  cuts  for  Australia.  Would  you 
believe  it,  Ted  ?  And  every  one  on  us  expectin'  him  to  marry 
her.  But  1  could  go  to  hell,  Ted,  if  only  to  sec  him  thear" 

He  rested  himself  awhile,  for  the  terrible  excitement  under 
which  he  had  been  laboring  had  made  him  gasp  for  breath. 

"  You're  younger  than  us  about  here,  Ted.  You'll  live  to 
come  across  them  two — stay,  put  down  her  name,  Katie  Dor- 
mer— she's  in  London,  and  the  last  I  heard  of  her  was  that  she 
wur  in  service.  She's,  mayhap,  gray-haired  now." 

I  was  about  to  write  down  her  name,  when  he  said,  angrily — 

"  No,  not  on  the  same  bit  o'  paper — on  another  bit  o'  paper : 
d— n  him  !  " 

This  I  did. 

"  I've  made  a  will,  Ted,  and  there's  fifty  pounds  for  Katie 
Dormer.  You'll  advertise  for  her ;  and  you'll  tell  her,  when 
you  find  her,  as  it's  from  old  Job  Ives." 

"If  she's  alive,  and  in  London,  I'll  find  her  out,"  I  said ; 

My  uncle  stretched  out  his  lean,  hairy  arm,  and  feebly  shook 
my  hand. 

"As  for  him,"  he  said,  with  that  fierce  light  again  coming 
into  his  eyes,  "if  ever  he  come  back  to  England,  and  if  you 
meet  him,  Ted,  kill  him,  my  brave  lad,  kill  him  dead  !  If  you 
had  a  sister,  wouldn't  you  kill  the  mahn  as  ruined  her  ?  And 
Katie  Dormer  was  fit  to  have  been  the  sister  of — of — " 

He  lay  back  with  a  sigh. 

"  Open  the  dower,  and  tell  my  brother  and  his  wife  to  come 
in,"  he  said,  in  a  little  time. 

I  called  them  in. 

"  I  feel  wonderful  better,"  he  said,  with  a  grin  on  the  hag- 
gard, unshaven  face — "  I  feel  wonderful  better.  I  hain't  dead 
yet,  Tom  ;  and  mayhap  I'll  cheat  ye  all.  Howsever  I  want  to 
tell  ye  as  I've  made  a  will,  and  in  case  them  darned  lawyers 
make  believe  as  they've  found  a  mare's  nest  in  it  I'll  tell  ye 
what  I  mean  by  it,  and  you'll  all  three  stick  to  it." 

"  Never  mind  about  the  will,  Job,"  said  my  mother.  "  Lie 
still,  and  get  better,  and  then  we'll  talk  about  it." 

"  Do  ye  wahnt  me  to  come  back  as  a  ghost  to  talk  about  it. 


104  KILMENY. 

do  ye  ?  Happen  as  ghosts  doan't  talk  anythin'  so  sensible 
when  they  come  back — they  talk  darned  nonsense  to  old  women, 
and  raise  planners  !  Fancy  old  Job  Ives  playin'  on  the  pian- 
ner — what  darned  queer  tunes  my  ghost'll  make  if  they  bother 
me!" 

"  Oh  Job,  don't  talk  like  that ! "  said  my  mother,  almost 
frightened. 

But  there  was  a  ghastly  grin  on  old  Job's  haggard  face,  and 
he  said — 

"  Ain't  it  'ard  as  I'll  have  to  wear  one  suit  o'  clothes  forever 
in  the  next  world — them  old  things  as  is  hanging  up  there — and 
in  a  year  or  two's  time  I'll  be  out  o'  the  fahshion.  And  the 
people'll  say,  when  I  begin  on  the  accordion,  '  poor  old  Job 
Ives,  'e  never  could  wear  good  clothes  even  when  he  wur  alive, 
and  now  he's  a  reg'lar  guy.'  " 

"  Job,  have  you  nothing  else  to  think  about  ?  "  said  my 
mother,  urgently,  who  was  horrified  to  see  her  relative  dying 
in  this  ungodly  mood. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  he.  "  Brother,  I've  left  you  and  your 
wife  all  the  stock  on  the  fahrm.  I  hope  you'll  take  the  fahrm 
and  do  your  duty  by  it,  as  I've  done.  If  them  wuts  in  the 
ten-acre  ud  only  get  some  rain,  you'll  have  a  good  crop  this 
year  to  start  wi' ;  and  I  hope  you  and  your  wife  '11  live  com- 
fortable. If  I'd  ha'  married  a  woman  like  you,  Susan,  I'd 
ha'  lived  a  different  life  mayhap  ;  but  I've  done  my  duty  as 
I-  say,  and  no  one  '11  deny  it.  Brother,  don't  you  forget  old 
Betsy  Kinch ;  she  wur  a  good  friend  to  our  father,  and 
she'll  look  to  you  when  quarter-day  comes  round.  And  you'll 
be  able  to  afford  her,  besides,  a  trifle  o'  taters,  or  butter,  or 
the  like—" 

My  father  took  Uncle  Job's  hand,  and  pressed  it. 

"  You're  a  good  man,  Job,  and  you've  been  a  kind-hearted 
man  since  you  wur  a  boy." 

"  As  for  Ted,"  said  said  my  uncle,  "  I've  a  matter  o'  eight- 
een 'undred  pounds  in  the  bank,  and  I've  left  it  to  'im.  You 
won't  think  that  'ard  on  you,  Tom  ?  You  know,  he's  no'  like 
us.  Look  at  him — " 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  my  father.  "  It's  him  as  has  to 
complain  o'  me  ;  I  should  ha'  started  him  in  life  ;  but  how 
could  I  ? " 

"  Why,  father,  you  gave  me  a  good  education  :  what  more 
does  any  one  want  than  that  ?  " 

"  Your  mother  did,"  said  he. 

"Make  a  good  use  or  the  money,  Ted,"  continued  my 
uncle.  "  It  isn't  much  ;  but  it's  a  good  nest-egg  ;  and  you 


105 

may  make  us  all  proud  o'  ye  yet.  D — n  it,  I'm  a-talkin'  as 
if  I"  wurn't  dyin'." 

M  And  neither  are  you,"  I  said;  "  if  you  would  only  keep 
still  and  quiet,  you'd  get  all  right  again." 

With  that  he  turned  away  his  face  from  us,  and  lay  per- 
fectly silent.  My  father  and  I  slipped  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  my  mother  by  the  bedside. 

"  What  a  wonderful  energy  there  is  in  him  !  "  I  said  to  my 
father.  "  His  system  is  at  its  very  lowest,  and  yet  you  hear 
how  he  talks." 

"  Ay,  there's  fire  there,"  said  my  father,  sitting  down  in  a 
great  wooden  chair  in  the  kitchen — "  there's  fire  in  him  yet ; 
and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  cheat  the  doctor.  If  he  does, 
he  has  to  thank  your  mother,  Ted.  She  has  watched  him 
and  tended  him  as  if  it  wur  you." 

My  father  seemed  to  be  struck  by  the  notion  that  my 
mother  should  care  so  much  for  one  of  his  family. 

"  There's  a  good  woman,  Ted,"  he  said,  thoughtfully ;  "  it's 
but  a  hard  life  she  has  had  of  it." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  "  I  remonstrated.  "  Did  you  ever 
see  a  woman  more  contented  ?  " 

"  But  she  was  brought  up  to  expect  mower,"  he  said,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "  She  might  have  been  a  gentleman's  wife, 
Ted,  riding  in  her  own  carriage.  What  is  she — " 

"  Happy,"  I  said,  looking  him  boldly  in  the  face. 

"  She  deserves  to  be,"  he  said,  rising  suddenly,  and  begin- 
ning to  walk  up  and  down  the  wooden  floor. 

Then  he  said  by  and  by — 

"  Was  it  about  Katie  Dormer  he  wanted  to  see  you,  Ted  ?  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  with  some  surprise;  for  Job  had  said 
it  was  a  secret. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  my  father ;  "  I  thought  so.  Your 
mother  would  have  it  as  he  was  wantin'  somebody  to  talk  to 
him  about  religion,  and  didn't  like  to  ask  us  about  here,  lest 
we  should  speak  about  it  to  the  neighbors.  But  I  thought  it 
was  Katie  Dormer  he  wanted  to  talk  about.  So  he  told  you 
the  whole  story  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"Ah,  he  was  never  the  same  after  that  happened.  It 
turned  his  life  round  and  round  for  him,  and  he  got  sour  and 
cantankerous,  and  bitter  in  his  speech  wi'  the  people  about. 
But  he  wur  a  good  man  for  all  that — I  wish  there  wur  more 
like  him." 

"  And  the  man—?  " 

"Catlin  ?     I  heard  as  he  had  come  back  a  rich  man,  and 


io6  KILMENY. 

had  started  as  a  builder  in  Highbury  somewhere,  with  a  wag- 
onette and  a  pair  o'  horses,  and  the  like.  It  wur  well  for 
him  as  he  got  off  for  Australia  afore  my  brother  Job  laid 
hands  on  him." 

Here  one  of  the  servants  came  in  for  a  minute  or  so,  and 
interrupted  our  conversation.  When  she  had  left,  my  father 
continued — 

"So  Job. is  still  thinkin'  o' that  girl.  I  dunnow  if  he's 
done  aught  but  think  of  her  these  twenty-five  yurs  and  more. 
But  what  d'ye  say,  Ted,  to  get  your  mother  to  go  home  ?  She 
wun't  go  home  for  me,  and  she'll  make  herself  bad  by  sittin' 
up  night  after  night.  You  take  her  home,  and  I'll  wait  here 
to-night.  In  the  mornin'  she  can  come  over  again  from 
Burnham." 


I  was  going  into  the  room,  when  he  said — 
"  Mind  vou  don't  tell  him  a 


you  don't  tell  him  as  you  heard  me  speak  o'  Catlin 
— for  he  doesn't  know  as  he's  back  in  London." 

"  All  right,"  I  said. 

I  went  into  the  room  gently,  that  I  might  not  disturb  my 
uncle.  He  was  not  asleep,  however ;  and  so  soon  as  he  saw 
me  he  signified  that  I  was  to  sit  do'wn  by  his  side. 

"  You  woan't  forget  about  them  two  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  faint 
whisper. 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"  Fifty  pounds  for  her ;  death,  and  hell  afterwards,  for 
him  !  If  I  could  only  see  him  drownin',  Ted,  from  the  side 
of  a  river,  me  with  a  rope,  him  lookin'  at  me  !  " 

A  wicked  laugh  came  over  the  gaunt,  gray  face  ;  and  then 
my  uncle  seemed  to  recover  his  spirits,  and  said  aloud — 

"  I  bain't  agoin'  to  die,  Ted  ;  I  be  goin'  to  live,  so  as  you 
may  paint  my  pictur.  Then  you'll  put  a  date  on  it,  and 
people  '11  know  as  I  was  in  the  fashion.  What  your  mother 
wun't  believe,  Ted,  is  this — that  folks  have  to  wear  in  the 
next  world  what  they  wore  in  this — or  how  could  you  recog- 
nize their  ghosts  ? " 

<;  Job,  pray  don't  talk  any  more  about  that  !  "  entreated 
my  mother,  who  was  evidently  being  "  talked  at "  by  her 
hardened  brother-in-law. 

"  What  I  says  is,  as  it's  ard  they  should  make  m.e  walk 
about  the  next  world  wi'  my  old  green  shootin-'-coat  and  cor- 
duroy breeches,  and  never  gie  me  a  chance  o'  changin'  the 
cut — " 

"  You've  told  me  all  that  before,"  she  said,  "  and  you  are 
only  harming  yourself  by  talking." 

"  You  want  me  to  say  as  I'm  darned  sorry  for  my  life,  and 


107 

as  I  beg  the  pahrson  to  forgive  me  for  not  goin'  to  church,'' 
he  said,  with  a  sneer.  "I'm  none  o'  your  sweetrtongued 
son,  Susan.  You'll  teach  old  Job  Ives  to  sing  hallelujahs 
when  you  teach  a  jay  to  talk  French.  Pahrsons !  bah  !  'IV 11 
ye  what,  Ted,  if  ye  kep*  a  lot  o'  pahrsons  in  a  greenhouse, 
and  manured  'em  and  let  'em  develop,  they'd  grow  into 
mealy-mouthed  women." 

"And  what  would  the  women  grow  into,  Uncle  Job  ? " 

"Why,  \vi'  plenty  o'  heat  and  damp,  you'd  see  'embeginin' 
to  sprout  claws,  and  meyow,  like  cats.  That's  what  all  women 
would  do,  except  one,  Ted — her." 

And  he  looked  at  my  mother. 

But  nothing  would  persuade  her  to  go  home  this  evening, 
although  it  seemed  clear  to  all  of  us,  the  doctor  included, 
that  Uncle  Job  was  gaining  ground.  And  as  the  doctor  had 
promised  to  sleep  at  the  farm-house  that  night,  after  seeing 
another  of  his  patients,  there  was  no  room  for  me,  and  so  I 
set  off  to  walk  over  to  Burnham,  with  a  promise  to  return  in 
the  morning. 

Somehow  the  reckless  talk  and  manner  of  my  uncle  had 
given  me  the  impression  that  he  was  not  so  dangerously  ill  as 
they  had  imagined.  Could  a  man  die  whose  whole  energy 
was  bent  upon  gibing  at  parsons,  thinking  over  an  old  love- 
story,  and  making  jokes  about  his  prospects  in  the  next 
world  ?  When  I  got  out  into  the  clear  night-air,  it  seemed 
as  if  I  had  come  down  into  Buckinghamshire  on  a  pleasant 
excursion,  and  that  I  ought  to  enjoy  the  opportunity. 

Shall  I  confess  here — since  this  is  a  book  of  confessions 
— that  gay  life  which  had  for  a  little  while  fascinated  me  at 
Brighton  had  begun  to  grow,  to  me,  dull,  heartless,  and  hope- 
less ?  It  even  destroyed  the  keen  pleasure  I  felt  in  being 
near  the  sea.  It  was  only  at  times  that  their  wandered  into 
that  atmosphere  that  was  sickly  with  the  scent  of  wines  and 
of  ladies'  finery  a  reminiscence  of  the  far-off  waves  ;  and 
that  vague  suggestion  stirred  pulses  that  had  grown  apathetic. 
I  began  to  long  even  for  London,  and  the  delight  of  labor, 
and  the  hopefulness  and  satisfaction  of  well-spent  time.  If 
I  went  down  to  Brighton  again,  I  resolved  to  take  my  picture 
thither,  and  work  at  it,  so  that  I  should  have  some  right  to 
enjoy  a  chance  hour  of  rest  by  the  shore,  out  of  sight  of  peo- 
ple, alone  by  the  sea. 

As  I  walked  along  the  dark  road,  recognizing  this  wood  or 
clump  of  trees  or  house  that  had  been  familiar  to  me  in  the 
old  time,  I  became  glad  that  the  fashionable  life  with  which 
I  had  no  sort  of  sympathy  was  wholly  cut  off  and  separated 


loS  KILMENY. 

from  me.  I  was  free  to  dream  and  dress  and  bend  my  steps 
just  as  I  pleased.  Even  Bonnie  Lesley  seemed  now  some- 
thing distant ;  and  when  I  tried  to  call  up  her  features,  and 
paint  on  the  dark  back-ground  of  the  gloom  im  front  of  me,  I 
could  only  summon  up  a  vague  shape,  that  scarcely  awakened 
interest.  But  then  I  thought  of  her  low  and  tender  words  on 
that  evening  at  Shoreham ;  and  my  heart  beat  rapidly. 

It  was  a  lovely  night.  There  was  no  moon  visible,  for  it 
lay  down  in  the  south  behind  a  great  thin  veil  of  cloud  that 
stretched  up  and  over  the  sky  in  successive  cirrus  lines.  Sin- 
gularly enough,  these  fleecy  stretches  of  cloud  were  so  trans- 
parent that  you  could  see  there  was  moonlight  lying  on  the 
other  side — a  sea  of  light  rippling  in  upon  a  breadth  of  ribbed 
and  gleaming  silver  sand.  But  where  the  clouds  grew  still 
thinner,  up  in  the  north,  they  lay  in  long  strips  across  the  deep 
blue,  like  the  white  hair  of  some  Scandinavian  god,  blown  by 
the  polar  winds.  The  rest  of  the  sky  was  dark  and  still ; 
and  there  was  not  sufficient  moonlight  falling  through  the 
curdled  clouds  to  lighten  up  the  landscape ;  so  that  the  strangest 
effect  was  produced  by  those  auroral-looking  gleams  of  tremu- 
lous white  fire  that  stretched  across  the  dark  vault  overhead. 

Very  dark,  too,  were  the  avenues  of  tall  Spanish  chestnuts 
that  led  up  to  Burnham  House  ;  but  nearer  the  House,  the 
open  park  grew  lighter,  and  at  times  the  moonlight  threw  a 
slight  shadow  from  the  old  and  rounded  oaks.  There  was  a 
faint  mist  hovering  about  the  foot  of  these  trees  that  made 
the  various  objects  around  wear  a  spectral  look.  It  was  a  long 
time  since  I  had  seen  Burnham  house  ;  and  now  the  gray  front 
of  it  seemed  strangely  beautiful.  In  my  early  days  the  place 
had  been  associated  with  errands,  and  birthday  presents,  and 
what  not,  that  gave  it  a  wholly  modern  and  prosaic  character, 
but  now  it  looked  legendary  and  old  and  picturesque.  Fancy 
this  ancient  house,  in  which  the  leaders  of  the  Commonwealth, 
sitting  deep  into  the  night,  with  their  leathern  doublets  and 
top-boots  still  on  them,  had  planned  their  daring  schemes  and 
written  out  their  despatches — the  stately  and  venerable  build- 
ing that  was  full  of  memorials  of  great  personages  who  had 
lived  there — which  seemed  to  belong  to  another  century  and 
another  order  of  people  ;  the  noble  and  striking  figures  whom 
history  paints — fancy  this  old  place  belonging  to  a  young  Eng- 
lish girl,  who  was  familiar  with  Brighton,  rode  in  the  Row,  and 
read  the  Times  ! 

I  was  startled  by  a  singular  noise  behind  me,  and,  looking 
around,  found  beside  me  a  young  horse  that  had  come  play- 
fully cantering  up,  and  now  stood  within  a  yard  of  the  iron 


BURXI/AM  PARK'.  109 

railing  on  which  I  sat.  I  rubbed  his  nose  with  a  cane  I  had 
(all  the  young  men  of  that  day  wore  a  cane  as  part  of  their  at- 
tire)— he  threw  up  his  head,  trotted  off,  and  then  came  back 
a^ain.  Finally,  by  dint  of  various  manoeuvres,  I  managed  to 
get  near  enough  to  seize  hold  of  his  mane  and  jump  on  his 
back. 

"  Come,"  I  said,  "  you  shall  pay  for  the  fright  you  gave 
me." 

Such  however  was  not  his  intention.  He  tossed  up  his  head ; 
he  shot  down  his  fore-legs,  and  kicked  out  his  hind  ones ;  he 
pranced  and  swerved,and  tried  all  his  tricks  with  no  avail.  This, 
at  least,  I  learned  in  my  boyhood — to  cling  with  my  knees  to 
a  horse's  bare  back,  so  that  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  shake 
off  a  leech  ;  and  at  length  this  particular  animal  gave  in,  and 
started  into  a  good  round  gallop  along  that  part  of  the  park 
in  which  he  had  been  turned  out  to  graze. 

The  excitement  of  this  wild  night-ride  grew  into  a  sort  of 
madness.  The  moonlight  had  come  out  more  strongly,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  weaving  strange  shapes  and  figures 
of  the  mist  that  lay  around  the  trees.  Such  a  mild  and  beauti- 
ful night,  in  this  old  English  park,  should  have  produced  Eng- 
lish fairies  and  spirits ;  Puck  should  have  been  peeping  from 
among  the  branches  of  the  oaks  ;  the  fair  Titania  and  her  mag- 
ic train  should  have  been  coming  sedately  over  the  sward, 
with  the  jealous  Oberon  down  there  in  the  brushwood  to  see 
her  pass.  But  with  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  throbbing  in 
the  stillness,  there  was  something  German,  wild,  legendary 
about  the  place.  The  figures  in  the  mist  seemed  to  be  tall 
shapes  that  grinned  maliciously,  and  waved  their  shadowy  gar- 
ments as  they  gathered  together  and  chattered  in  the  moon- 
light. But  could  any  one  of  them  catch  me  on  this  strong 
young  beast,  that  seemed  to  be  possessed  by  the  madness  of 
the  hour?  My  hand  was  twisted  in  his  mane;  my  cap  had 
fallen  off,  and  I  felt  the  wind  rushing  through  my  lifted  hair. 
I  laughed  aloud  in  defiance  as  we  tore  past  the  grinning 
figures. 

Then,  just  beside  me,  I  heard  a  sudden  shriek,  so  shrill 
and  sudden  that  it  seemed  like  a  death-scream.  I  saw  that  I 
had  ridden  around  the  park  and  back  again,  almost  to  the 
gate  of  the  modern  wing  of  Burnham  House.  I  tried  to  stop 
my  excited  steed  ;  but  the  brute  paid  no  attention.  So  I  man- 
aged to  slide  down  and  get  clear  of  him  without  a  kick  ;  and 
then  hastily  ran  back  to  the  spot  at  which  I  had  heard  the 
scream. 

There  was  something  lying  on  the  ground — it  was  a  white 


no  KILMENY. 

face.  When  I  got  near  I  was  horrified  to  find  that  it  was 
Miss  Burnham  who  lay  there,  quite  motionless  and  pale,  the 
dark  shawl  she  had  been  wearing  thrown  back  and  revealing 
the  deathlike  features.  I  knew  not  what  to  do.  If  I  ran  to 
the  House  for  water,  what  might  happen  in  the  interim  ?  I 
wished  to  lift  her  up,  and  ask  her  if  she  were  hurt ;  but  I  dared 
not.  I  took  her  hand ;  and  somehow  I  was  obliged  to  let  it 
fall  again — the  mere  touch  of  it  by  my  fingers  seemed  a  sort 
of  desecration. 

With  what  intense  relief  I  saw  that  she  was  coming  round 
again  !  When  her  dazed  eyes  caught  sight  of  me,  she  uttered 
a  slight  cry,  afld  shuddered  so  that  I  thought  she  was  like  to 
faint  again.  But  by  and  by  a  strange  look  came  into  the  eyes, 
and  she  was  about  to  speak  when  I  asked  her  hurriedly  if  she 
had  been  hurt. 

"  It  is  you,  really,  then  ? "  she  said,  and  she  glanced  in  a 
frightened  way  all  around  her. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,"  I  said.  "  It  was  a  foolish  trick 
of  mine — and  I  thought  when  I  heard  some  one  scream 
that—" 

She  shuddered  slightly,  and  then  attempted  to  rise.  I  was 
forced  to  offer  her  my  hand,  and  afterwards  my  arm,  as  I  saw 
she  was  rather  unsteady  when  she  rose.  For  a  little  time  she 
availed  herself  of  this  assistance ;  then  she  withdrew  her  hand 
and  said  coldly — 

"  You  need  not  come  any  farther." 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  if  you  are  hurt,  Miss  Burnham." 

"  No,  I  was  only  frightened.  I  should  not  have  been  out 
so  late — I  suppose  it  is  past  eleven — but  the  night  was  so 
beautiful ;  and  then  when  I  saw  you  galloping  up,  with  your 
hair  streaming — " 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"  I  am  more  than  sorry,"  I  said.  "  I  did  not  know  you  had 
returned  from  Brighton ;  and  I  am  sure  I  did  not  expect  to 
meet  any  one  in  the  park,  or  I  should  not  have  done  anything 
so  foolish.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  the  alarm  I  have 
caused  you." 

By  this  time  we  had  nearly  reached  the  shrubbery  that  sur- 
rounds the  back  gate  of  Burnham  House.  I  heard  the  sound 
of  footsteps  on  the  gravel ;  and  then  I  heard  some  one 
crying — 

"  Hettie%  Hettie,  where  are  you  ? " 

It  was  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham's  voice. 

My  companion  murmured  some  words  of  thanks,  bowed 
slightly,  and  walked  towards  the  House.  I  wandered  up  and 


TIIK  LADIES'  GARDKX.  in 

down  the  park  in  the  moonlight  until  I  found  my  cap,  and  then 
went  home.  There  was  a  note  lying  on  the  table  from  Bonnie 
Lesley.  She  wanted  to  know  the  name  of  the  man  in  Brighton 
to  whom  I  had  given  her  fan  to  be  mended. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  LADIES'  GARDEN. 

OLD  JOB  IVES  apparently  got  much  better ;  and  I  prepared 
to  return  to  London.  On  the  morning  of  my  intended  de- 
parture I  received  a  message  from  Burnham  House,  to  the 
effect  that  Miss  Hester  wished  to  see  me  for  a  few  minutes. 
Accordingly  I  went  over  to  the  House.  Since  our  memorable 
adventure  in  Burnham  Park,  I  had  met  her  several  times 
when  she  was  out  riding.  Sometimes  she  was  accompanied 
by  old  Stephen,  the  groom  ;  sometimes  by  Colonel  Burnham  ; 
but  more  frequently  by  her  cousin,  Mr.  Alfred. 

A  very  handsome  pair  these  two  looked  now,  as  they  rode 
along  the  leafy  lanes  that  intersect  the  Burnham  valley.  They 
were  no  longer  boy  and  girl,  but  man  and  woman  ;  and  it  was 
understood  among  the  neighbors  that  they  would  in  time  be- 
come husband  and  wife. 

"  And  a  good  thing,  too,"  they  added,  "for  that  yaller-faced 
young  malm  as  has  spent  all  the  years  of  'is  life  a-doin'  nothin' 
ony  waitin'  for  ur." 

When  I  went  into  the  House,  he  and  she  were  playing 
billiards  in  the  old  hall.  Burnham  House  was  divided  into 
the  ancient  historical  building,  all  the  rooms  of  which  were 
preserved  intact,  and  a  new  wing  which  had  been  built  by 
Miss  Hester's  father,  for  the  better  accommodation  of  visitors. 
The  latter  rooms  had  never  been  properly  finished ;  but  they 
were  used  by  the  family,  who  preferred  them  to  the  old,  damp, 
musty  chambers  of  the  House  proper.  This  venerable  hall 
was  about  eighty  feet  by  forty-five,  and  had  a  narrow  gallery 
running  around  the  walls,  with  a  frontage  of  wondrously  carved 
oak.  The  balustrades  of  the  staircase  going  up  to  this  gallery 
were  also  of  carved  wood,  of  singular  design  and  rare  execution. 
In  front  of  the  gallery,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  was  a  pair  of 
huge  antlers,  and  immediately  underneath  the  Burnham  arms; 
on  the  walls  surrounding  the  gallery  hung  a  series  of  large 
and  gloomy  family  portraits,  many  of  them  by  celebrated. 


Ii2  KILMENY. 

masters,  and  one  or  two  of  them  the  originals  of  well-known 
engravings ;  while  on  the  walls  underneath  the  gallery — and 
especially  over  the  great  fireplace — were  ranged  all  manner 
of  rusty  muskets,  daggers,  swords,  pistols,  and  cross-bows. 
Down  here  in  a  corner  was  the  chest  that  contained  Oliver 
Cromwell's  Bible ;  there,  in  a  window-recess,  were  displayed 
a  sword  and  belt  which  Elizabeth  had  presented  to  one  of  the 
old  Burnhams  on  visiting  the  House — everywhere  the  look  of 
antiquity  that  the  successive  holders  and  owners  of  the  place 
had  religiously  preserved.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  a  modern 
billiard-table,  and  a  bright  young  English  lady  making  flukes. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Burnham  carelessly,  trying  to  make 
a  simple  carom  and  missing  it — it  was  clear  that  his  opponent 
was  not  betting.  "  Wonder  you  never  came  over  before." 

The  ease  of  his  manner  was,  I  presume,  intended  to  show 
that  he  had  forgotten  that  little  incident  about  the  weight  of 
the  stone. 

"  I  wished  to  ask  your  advice,  Mr.  Ives,  about  the  pillars 
in  the  drawing-room,"  said  Miss  Burnham ;  "  I  hope  you  will 
forgive  my  breaking  in  upon  your  time.  Will  you  come  this 
way  and  look  at  them  ? " 

There  was  no  effort  of  any  kind  in  her  speech  ;  nothing  but 
a  quiet,  self-possessed,  matter-of-fact  directness,  which  was 
neither  forbiddingly  cold  on  the  one  hand,  nor  awkwardly 
familiar  on  the  other.  I  professed  myself  willing  to  do  what- 
ever I  could,  and  so  she  led  the  way  through  a  narrow  stone 
corridor  which  opened  out  on  what  was  called  the  ladies' 
garden.  Her  cousin  remained  behind. 

She  was  a  little  woman,  you  know ;  but  she  wore  a  rather 
long  train,  and  she  walked  with  a  grace  that  was  queenly  in 
its  every  motion.  And  when  she  got  out  into  the  sunlight, 
and  turned  her  face  towards  me,  she  looked  as  fresh  and 
bright  and  sweet  as  a  wild  strawberry — one  of  those  tiny, 
sweet,  wild  berries  that  you  catch  in  the  early  morning,  with 
sunlight  on  its  fresh  color  and  sweetness  in  its  heart.  I  sup- 
pose anybody  looking  at  her  from  a  distance  would  at  once  have 
called  her  dark  and  small ;  but  when  you  came  near,  and  saw 
the  fresh  young  life  that  was  in  the  charming  face,  with  its 
hamdsome  features  and  its  pretty  forehead,  and  the  strange, 
wise  kindliness  that  lit  up  those  eyes  of  which  I  have  many  a 
time  spoken — when  you  saw  the  perfect  symmetry  of  her  form 
and  the  perfect  grace  that  seemed  to  accompany  her  every  move- 
ment— even  if  the  small  pale  fingers  were  only  pulling  a  rose- 
leaf  in  two — you  began  to  dream  dreams  about  this  slight  and 
young  English  girl,  and  wonder  whether  there  lay  not  under 


THE  LADIES'  CARD  EX.  113 

that  calm  exterior  great  and  even  tragic  possibilities  of 
character.  She  was  fit  to  have  lived  in  the  olden  days,  you 
would  have  deemed — in  the  days  when  great  deeds  of  self- 
sacrifice  and  heroism  were  oftentimes  demanded  from  our 
gentle  English  dames  and  their  gentler  daughters.  It  was  so 
easy  to  imagine  her  grown  into  a  noble  and  perfect  woman, 
that,  as  you  thought  of  her  future  being  linked  to  that  of  such 
a  creature  as  he  whom  she  had  just  left,  it  was  impossible 
not  to  grow  sad  at  heart. 

"  I  understand  you  and  Mr.  Heatherleigh  work  together 
when  you  are  in  town  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  could  tell  me  whether  he  and  you  to- 
gether would  come  down  here  and  put  a  few  sketches — or 
even  some  ornamentation  merely — in  the  panelling  of  those 
pillars." 

The  wing  which  her  father  had  built  (and  which  he  had 
nearly  ruined  himself  in  building)  had  been  made  to  front 
this  Ladies'  Garden,  so  that  it  might  not  interfere  with  the 
original  look  of  the  house  as  seen  from  the  great  avenue. 
She  walked  over  to  one  of  the  French  windows,  opened  it,  and 
stepped  into  the  drawing-room.  I  followed,  but  I  knew  the 
spacious  and  handsomely  ornamented  apartment  well,  and 
also  the  pillars  which  she  wished  Heatherleigh  to  decorate. 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  ornament  these  pillars  in  keeping 
with  the  rest  of  the  room,"  I  said ;  "  they  ought  to  have  pic- 
tures." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  wish,"  she  said.  "  Most  drawing- 
rooms  look  narrow  and  formal  from  the  absence  of  pictures. 
I  was  thinking  chiefly  of  the  winter-time ;  and  then  it  would 
be  so  pleasant,  when  one  is  shut  up  indoors  in  the  long  even- 
ings, to  have  just  beside  you  a  view  of  some  great  distance. 
The  pictures  should  be  faint  and  thin  and  light,  with  long  per- 
spectives, which  would  make  you  forget  that  you  were  shut 
up  in  a  room." 

"  Then  you  don't  want  merely  decorative  pictures  ?  " 

"  No.  I  should  like  to  have  pictures  as  real-lookfhg  as 
stereoscopic  views,  but  still  so  light  as  not  to  be  too  prominent 
in  the  room." 

"  Leave  that  to  Heatherleigh,  then,"  I  said,  "  and  let  him 
follow  his  own  fancy.  You  should  see  the  smoking-room  he 
painted  for  Lord  Westbournecroft — two  summers  ago.  The 
room  juts  out  from  the  house  like  a  conservatory ;  and  on 
three  sides  there  are  alternating  panels  and  windows,  with  pict- 
ures on  the  panels  and  transparent  flowers  on  the  windows. 
8 


114  KILMEXY. 

The  flowers  you  only  see  during  the  clay  ;  the  pictures  when 
the  place  is  lit  up  at  night." 

"  Miss  Lesley  told  me  he  had  done  something  of  the  kind, 
or  I  should  not  have  asked,"  he  said.  "  Now  can  you  tell  me 
what  it  would  probably  cost  to  have  them  done  ? " 

"I  can  only  tell  you  that  he  was  asked  by  Lord  West- 
bournecroft  to  fix  his  own  terms,  and  he  said  five  guineas  a 
day ;  but  he  received  some  considerable  present  over  and 
above  that  when  he  left." 

"And  you,"  she  said,  with  some  little  embarrassment — 
"  you  will  come  ? " 

"On  one  condition,"  I  said,  calmly. 

"  And  that  ? " 

"  Is  that  you  will  deign  to  accept  as  a  gift  whatever  I  may 
be  able  to  do." 

Her  cheek  flushed,  and  she  bent  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"  I  cannot  do  that,  "  she  said  ;  "  you  have  no  right  to  ex- 
pect me.  Besides,  it  is  absurd.  If  Mr.  Heatherleigh  accepts 
payment  for  what  he  does,  why  should  not  you — " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Why  should  I  not  take  money  from  you,  you  would  say. 
Well,  I'd  rather  not — it  is  merely  a  notion  or  whim  I  have." 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  those  grave,  earnest 
eyes  ;  and  I  imagined  that  she  knew  why  I  would  sooner  have 
cut  my  right  hand  off  than  take  money — a  second  time — from 
her.  I  dared  to  think  that  she  would  accept  my  offer,  and 
thanks  were  already  on  my  tongue,  when  she  said,  coldly— 

"  I  am  sorry,  then,  that  I  must  give  up  thinking  about  this 
proposal  at  present.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  however." 

Here  Alfred  Burnham  came  along  the  corridor,  whistling. 

She  sood  for  a  moment  or  two  in  apparent  indecision,  as 
though  she  expected  me  to  rescind  my  resolution.  That  was 
impossible. 

"  Shall  I  write  to  Mr.  Heatherleigh, "  I  asked,  "  and  say 
that  you  wish  to  see  him  when  he  returns  ? " 

"  Pray  don't,"  she  said,  in  the  same  courteously  distant 
manner ;  "  I  shall  think  over  the  matter.  Perhaps  I  may  find 
some  less  troublesome  way  of  getting  the  pillars  finished." 

So  we  bowed  to  each  other,  and  said  "good-morning,"  and 
I  withdrew.  Alfred  Burnham  came  through  the  corridor  with 
me,  and  said — apparently  because  he  fancied  he  ought  to  say 
something — 

"  Won't  you  stay,  and  have  a  game  at  billiards  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you,"  I  said,  turning  my  back  on  Burnham 
House,  and  wondering  when  I  should  see  it  again. 


THE  LAS  T  OF  f  'NCLK  JO/i.  1 1 5 

CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  LAST  OF  UNCLE  JOB. 

I  HASTENED  down  into  the  valley,  and  up  and  over  the  hill 
again,  towards  my  uncle's  farm,  that  I  might  bid  the  old  man 
good-bye.  Even  if  Hester  Burnham  refused  to  give  me  my 
revenge  by  becoming  my  debtor,  there  was  plenty  of  other  work 
before  me.  I  resolved  to  go  no  more  to  Brighton,  and  its  idle 
atmosphere.  Polly  Whistler  had  promised  to  help  me,  and 
I  was  able  now  to  pay  her  for  her  assistance.  But  the  story 
about  what  this  work  was,  and  what  hand  she  had  in  it,  will 
come  in  its  proper  time. 

I  found,  on  reaching  the  farm,  the  whole  household  in 
consternation.  My  uncle  had  suffered  a  severe  relapse,  and 
was  now  delirious.  The  doctor  had  been  sent  for,  but  he 
had  gone  to  Steeple  Heyford,  and  might  not  return  until  night. 
My  mother  was  glad  to  get  me  into  the  house,  as  my  father 
had  had  to  leave  early  in  the  morning  to  attend  to  some  part 
of  his  duties. 

"  Your  uncle  has  done  nothing  all  night  but  talk  about  you 
and  Catlin,  and  poor  Katie  Dormer,"  said  my  mother.  "Oh, 
Ted,  it's  a  fearful  thing  to  think  of  his  condition.  I  think  he 
is  getting  worse ;  but  he  only  swears  if  I  talk  about  getting 
Mr.  Joyce  to  see  him,  and  says  such  dreadful  things  about 
religion,  and  his  soul,  and  the  next  world.  I  hope  he  doesn't 
know  what  he  is  saying." 

If  that  was  likely  to  be  a  saving  clause,  Job  had  certainly 
the  benefit  of  it,  for  he  was  murmuring  incoherent  nonsense 
when  I  entered  the  room.  He  either  imagined  or  pretended 
to  imagine  that  I  was  the  devil,  addressed  me  in  his  grim  sat- 
urnine fashion,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  prepared  sufficient  room 
for  the  rest  of  the  Missenden  and  Burnham  people  who  were 
likely  to  follow  him. 

"  I  bain't  a  bad  sort,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "  although  my 
sister-in-law,  a  rare  good  woman,  said  as  I  wur  sure  to  come  to 
you  at  last.  And  'ere  I  am  ;  and  I'm  darned  if  I'm  a  darned 
bit  afeard  o'  you,  or  one  of  your  darned  crew." 

"Oh  !  Job  !  "  cried  my  mother,  ready  to  burst  into  tears. 

"Why,  don't  you  know  me?"  I  said.  "I'm  no  more  the 
devil  than  you  are.  Don't  you  know  me,  Uncle  Job  ? " 

"  Whisper — a  secret,"  he  said,  softly. 

I  bent  down  to  him,  and  he  said  under  his  breath — 


Ii6  KILMENY. 

"  No,  you're  not  the  devil,  but  you'll  darned  soon  be  one 
of  his  friends." 

With  that  he  laughed  out  shrill  and  loud,  in  a  way  to  make 
one  shudder.  Then  he  lay  for  a  long  time,  and  when  he  next 
spoke  he  seemed  quite  sensible,  but  for  a  peculiar  look  that 
occasionally  appeared  in  his  deep-set  eyes. 

"  Ted,  you  know  the  story  as  I  told  you  about  Katie  Dormer  ? 
It's  fur  away  back  now — in  a  mist  like — and  it  seems  as  if  I  had 
never  know'd  her.  But  you'll  find  her  out,  and  give  her  the 
money,  and  tell  her  as  how  old  Job  Ives  had  a  kind  word  for 
her  to  the  last." 

"  Get  well,  and  find  her  out  for  yourself,"  I  said. 

"  None  o'  your  darned  lies,"  he  said,  with  a  scowl ;  "  I  bain't 
a  fool,  be  I  ?  You  say  as  I'll  get  well — yeas,  very  like  ! 
Hillo !  is  it  you,  Ted  ?  I  thought  'twur  one  o'  them  darned 
neighbors  as  are  tryin'  to  save  poor  old  Job  Ives's  soul — d — n 
'cm  !  But  doan't  you  go  for  destroyin'  the  Church,  Ted,  all 
because  some  precious  clever  fellows  think  as  they  can  do 
without  it.  They  can't.  It's  ony  the  fear  o'  the  next  world 
as  keeps  the  ignorant,  superstitious,  darned  hidiots  straight, 
and  if  ye  don't  frighten  them  wi'  hell — " 

"Job  !  "  cried  my  mother  to  the  grinning  old  heathen,  "  do 
you  know  what  you're  saying?  " 

The  anxious  little  woman  was  beside  herself  to  know  how 
to  arrest  his  rambling  tongue,  and  alter  the  current  of  his  unruly 
thoughts. 

"You're  a  good  woman,  Susan,"  he  growled,  turning  away 
from  us  both — "  a  rare  good  woman,  but  a  darned  fool." 

My  mother  begged  me  to  stay  with  her,  and  so  I  loitered 
about  the  house  the  whole  day,  sometimes  in  the  room,  some- 
times out  in  the  back  garden.  My  father  looked  in  once  or 
twice,  but  he  had  some  important  business  on  hand,  and  could 
not  finally  stay  and  relieve  my  mother  until  the  evening. 

It  was  a  dull  and  dreary  day  for  everybody  concerned;  my 
mother  was  anxious  to  hear  all  about  my  new  ways  of  life,  and 
it  was  to  her  alone  that  I  ever  revealed  any  of  my  ambitious 
dreams.  I  could  see  that  the  little  woman  was  pleased  to  hear 
of  these  projects  ;  and  her  tender,  thoughtful  eyes  grew  dim 
with  tears,  as  she  hoped,  whatever  befell  me,  that  I  might  have 
as  happy  a  life  as  she  had  had.  I  did  not  tell  her  the  part  of 
my  vague  dreams  of  the  future  that  referred  to  herself ;  and 
yet  sometimes  I  fancied  that  she  guessed  my  secret  wish. 

I  told  her  of  all  the  various  people  I  had  met.  Singularly 
enough,  she  seemed  to  prefer  that  I  should  keep  among  my 
artistic  friends,  instead  of  prosecuting  the  chance  acquaint- 


THE  LAST  OF  f  \Y(  7. /•:  JOB.  I  r 7 

I  had  made  in  that  fashionable  world  into  which  I 
had  been  casually  introduced.  With  what  I  said  of  Bonnie 
Lesley  she  seemed  particularly  pleased. 

'•  I  fancy,  from  what  you  say,    that  she   must  be  a  girl  of  a 
wayward  or  original  character,  who  does  not  quite  feel  herself 
at  home  among  these  fashionable  people.     Her  kindness  to 
you  shows  how  independent  she  is  in  her  choice  of  friends, 
and  she  must  be  very  good-hearted.  Then  what  you  say  about 
her  being  so  handsome  is  all  the  more  credit  to  her,  as  it  is 
a  wonder  she  has  not  been  spoiled.     What  age  is  she  ? " 
She  must  be  about  as  old  as  I  am." 
Then  she  is  older  than  Hester  Burnham  ?  " 
Yes." 

'  They  are  friends,  you  say  ?  " 

'Acquaintances,  at  least." 

'It  is  singular  that  Miss  Hester  has  never  spoken  to  me 
about  her,  as  she  and  I  have  long  chats  about  nearly  every- 
body she  knows.  Ah,  Ted,  your  friend  Miss  Lesley  may  be 
all  that  you  say,  but  she  is  no  better-hearted  a  girl,  nor  pret- 
tier, than  Hester  Burnham." 

"  They  are  so  unlike  each  other  that  you  cannot  compare 
them,"  I  said.  "  Miss  Burnham  is  perhaps  bound  by  her 
position  to  be  more  circumspect  and  reticent  than  Bonnie 
Lesley,  as  we  call  her.  Besides,  1  know  Bonnie  Lesley  very 
well,  and  I  scarcely  know  Miss  Burnham  at  all." 

"  No,  you  and  she  are  not  the  friends  you  used  to  be  when 
you  were  children." 

"How  could  you  expect  it?  I  can  tell  you  I  was  suffi- 
ciently embarrassed  when  I  was  forced  to  be  in  the  same 
room  with  Miss  Burnham  in  London.  If  the  people  who 
asked  us  both  to  their  house  knew  our  relative  positions  here, 
wouldn't  they  laugh." 

And  my  mother  laughed,  too,  and  blushed  as  if  she  were 
still  nineteen,  and  had  just  been  accused  of  running  away 
from  the  parsonage  to  marry  a  good-hearted  and  handsome 
young  keeper. 

Night  had  fallen  when  the  doctor  drove  up  in  his  dog-cart. 
The  trap  and  horse — the  latter  a  rather  mettlesome  cob — were 
left  in  the  charge  of  a  lad,  and  the  doctor  walked  into  the 
kitchen,  where  my  father  and  I  stood.  My  mother  came  out 
of  the  room,  and  seemed  in  a  state  of  great  emotion.  The 
doctor  went  into  the  bedroom,  which  was  on  the  same  floor ; 
but  my  mother  did  not  accompany  him. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Sue  ?  "  said  my  father. 

"  He's  been  talking  about  that  girl  fit  to  break  any  one's 


1 1 8  KILMENY. 

heart,"  she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  I  never  thought  he 
could  be  so  fond  of  any  one.  And  now  he  imagines  that  they 
are  going  to  be  married,  and  he  has  been  talking  to  her  as 
if  she  were  there  ;  and  when  the  doctor's  dog-cart  drove  up, 
he  said  it  was  the  carriage  come  to  take  him  to  church,  where 
she  was  waiting  for  him." 

At  this  moment  the  doctor  appeared. 

"  He  is  very  excited,  and  we  must  get  him  soothed  at  any 
cost,"  he  said.  "  Nothing  will  do  for  him  but  that  I  must  go 
up-stairs  to  his  old  bedroom  and  bring  him  down  a  picture 
which  he  says  is  behind  some  books.  Mrs.  Ives,  will  you  give 
me  a  candle  ?  Mr.  Ives,  will  you  go  in  beside  him  for  a 
moment  ?  " 

My  mother  herself  took  the  candle  to  show  the  doctor  up 
the  narrow  wooden  stairs  ;  while  my  father  passed  through  the 
kitchen,  and  went  into  my  uncle's  room.  A  second  after- 
wards— and  all  this  had  occurred  within  a  minute — I  noticed 
a  figure  dart  across  the  yard  towards  the  dog-cart.  Something 
made  me  rush  out  to  see  what  this  could  mean,  and  there  I 
saw  my  Uncle  Job  trying  to  persuade  the  bewildered  lad  who 
had  charge  of  the  dog-cart  to  go  away,  and  give  the  horse  up 
to  him.  I  ran  forward  and  seized  him  by  the  arm.  He  shook 
me  off  and  swore  horribly.  He  tried  to  get  up  on  the  dog- 
cart ;  I  caught  him  by  the  neck  and  shoulders  and  pulled  him 
down  by  main  force. 

"  Would  you  make  me  late  for  church,  you  darned  hound  ! " 
screamed  my  uncle,  aiming  a  blow  at  my  face. 

I  warded  off  the  blow  and  closed  with  him  again.  But 
twenty  men  could  not  have  held  him  down.  He  struggled  up 
into  the  dog-cart,  caught  hold  of  the  reins  in  the  darkness, 
and -the  fool  of  a  boy  jumped  back  from  the  head  of  the  horse, 
that  was  now  excited  with  the  noise.  At  the  same  moment  my 
father,  in  great  consternation,  came  running  across  the  yard, 
and  shouted  out  for  God's  sake  to  catch  hold  of  his  brother. 
I  saw  in  a.  moment  how  it  had  happened.  My  uncle, 
possessed  by  the  illusion  that  he  was  about  to  be  married,  had 
cunningly  employed  a  ruse  to  get  the  doctor  out  of  the  way, 
had  hurriedly  donned  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a  coat,  stepped 
out  of  the  window  and  ran  across  the  yard.  My  father,  on 
entering  and  finding  the  bed  empty,  had  probably  been  too 
bewildered  to  notice  the  open  window,  and  very  likely  wasted 
some  seconds  in  looking  under  the  bed  or  tables. 

However,  there  was  not  an  instant  to  lose  now.  I  ran 
forward  to  the  horse's  head,  and  was  knocked  down  the  same 
moment.  When  I  rose  (one  of  the  wheels  just  grazing  my 


THE  LAST  OF  UNCLE  JO/>\  1 19 

elbow)  I  saw  that  my  father  had  scrambled  up  behind,  and 
was  endeavoring  to  catch  at  the  reins.  The  horse  was  now 
wild;  and  as  he  backed  the  dog-cart  with  a  terrific  crash 
against  the  stone-wall  of  the  farm-yard,  the  doctor  appeared. 

"  Give  him  his  head  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Give  him  his  head 
for  a  bit,  or  he'll  be  the  death  of  the  whole  of  you." 

lUit  the  responsibility  no  longer  rested  with  my  father.  My 
uncle  had  again  wrested  the  reins  from  him,  and  the  horse 
sprang  forward. 

"Job,  for  God's  sake,  give  me  the  reins !  "  cried  my  father, 
who  still  stood  up  behind. 

"  Doan't  you  hear  the  church  bells  ringing  ? "  shouted  my 
uncle,  hoarsely.  "  I  can  hear  'em  plain,  all  the  way  up  the 
hill ;  and  she's  waiting — she's  waiting — she's  waiting." 

By  this  time  he  had  driven  the  horse  into  a  narrow  path 
that  led  from  the  farm-yard  across  my  uncle's  fields,  and  down 
the  hill,  passing  the  deep  dell  of  which  you  have  heard  him 
speak.  The  path  was  narrow  and  rugged,  for  it  was  only 
used  for  the  farm-carts,  and  the  doctor  and  I,  running  after 
the  slight  vehicle,  could  see  it  swaying  from  side  to  side,  as 
it  fell  into  deep  ruts,  and  was  dragged  out  again  by  a  half- 
maddened  horse. 

"Yes,  Job,  yes,"  we  heard  my  father  say,  imploringly, 
"we  know  she's  waiting,  but  let  me  drive — there's  a  good 
fellow  !  Job,  old  man,  give  me  the  reins  !  " 

But  again  he  lashed  the  horse,  and  then  he  waved  his  whip 
triumphantly  in  the  air.  There  was  just  enough  light  for  us  to 
see  his  spare  figure,  that  looked  tall  and  gaunt  in  the  vague 
darkness,  standing  erect  in  front  of  the  dog-cart,  while  he 
waved  his  arm  and  cried — 

"  No  man  but  me  shall  drive  !  No  man  but  myself !  For 
doan't  ye  hear  the  church  bells  down  there — I  can  hear  'em 
ringing,  ringing,  ringing — in  the  air,  all  around,  up  in  the 
sky  too — and  she's  waiting ;  I  tell  you,  she's  waiting !  she's 
waiting  !  " 

He  laughed  out  shrilly  and  clear. 

"  If  we  don't  stop  the  horse,  they  are  both  dead  men  !  " 
cried  the  doctor ;  but  it  was  hard  to  keep  up  with  the  dog- 
cart in  this  dark  Jane,  at  the  pace  the  horse  was  going. 

For  they  had  now  got  on  the  breast  of  the  hill,  where  there 
was  no  bank  on  either  side  of  the  rough  path.  I  heard  my 
father  making  more  desperate  efforts  to  restrain  his  brother, 
while  Job  was  shouting  more  wildly  and  shrilly  than  ever 
about  the  church  bells  "ringing,  ringing,  ringing" — then 


120  KILMENY. 

there  was  a  fearful  crash,  prolonged  for  a  couple  of  seconds, 
a  hoarse  groan  or  two,  then  silence  and  darkness. 

That  terrible  stillness  !  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  deep 
cleft  in  the  hill-side  alone — for  I  had  outstripped  the  doctor 
— and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  darkness  was  throbbing  with 
points  of  fire.  During  that  moment  of  paralyzed  hesitation 
the  clouds  parted,  and  there  was  a  pale  gleam  of  moonlight 
thrown  along  the  circular  side  of  the  dell.  But  down  in  the 
hollow  there  was  only  gloom,  and  the  dreadful  silence  that 
hung  over  the  fate  of  two  men. 

My  uncle  had  formerly  ploughed  up  the  bottom  and  the 
other  side  of  the  dell ;  but  the  side  that  I  now  proceeded  to 
descend  was  covered  with  patches  of  brier  growing  among  the 
rough  inequalities  of  the  chalk.  I  scrambled  down  among 
these  weeds,  dreading  every  moment  to  touch  a  living  form, 
and  yet  possessed  by  a  vague  horror  that  it  might  not  be  alive. 
I  heard  the  doctor  following  me.  The  first  object  I  stumbled 
on  was  the  wheel  of  the  dog-cart,  and  then  I  trod  on  the  leg 
of  the  horse.  The  animal  was  quite  motionless. 

**  Father !  "  I  cried,  making  a  wild  effort  to  break  this 
frightful  silence,  "  where  are  you  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  doctor,  "  until  I  see  if  I  have  a  light  with 
me." 

But  the  moonlight  was  now  so  full  and  strong  above  that 
the  pale  reflection  of  it  down  here  was  sufficient  to  guide  our 
steps.  We  had  not  long  to  search.  My  father  and  my  uncle 
lay  within  half-a-dozen  yards  of  each  other.  Neither  stirred 
as  we  approached.  The  doctor  knelt  for  a  moment  by  the 
side  of  Uncle  Job,  and  took  his  hand  in  his ;  then  he  came 
over  to  where  I  was  trying  to  lift  up  the  helpless  body  of  my 
father. 

"  Who  is  to  go  back  to  your  mother  ?  "  he  said — and  his 
voice  seemed  to  me  distant  and  strange  and  unrecognizable. 
"  They  are  both  quite  dead." 


CHAPTFR  XVI. 

IN     LONDON     AGAIN. 


WHAT  a  good  friend  Hester  Burnham  was  to  my  mother 
during  that  terrible  time.  The  wonderful,  wise  way  in  which 
the  girl  crept  into  her  confidence,  opened  the  fountains  of  her 


Iff  LONQON  AGAIN*  ii\ 

v.ith  a  tender  sympathy,  and  then  wiled  her  away  into 
thinking  of  practical  necessities  and  future  plans,  was  beyond 
comprehension,  as  it  was  beyond  all  praise.  Where  had  this 
young  creature  been  educated  into  a  large  and  heartfelt  sym- 
pathy with  human  sorrow  ?  Where  had  she  been  taught 
her  kindly,  matronly  ways,  that  were  not  the  ways  of  an  inex- 
perienced girl  ?  And  who  had  lent  to  those  eyes  which  were 
meant  to  bewitch  and  steal  the  hearts  of  men  that  grave  and 
beautiful  compassion  which  seemed  to  transfigure  the  face  of 
the  girl,  and  make  one  regard  her  as  something  more  than 


woman 


My  mother  and  she  had  always  been  friends,  but  during 
this  time  it  seemed  to  me  that  no  two  human  beings  were 
ever  so  closely  drawn  together  as  these  two  were.  On  the 
day  of  the  funeral,  my  mother  and  she  came  to  the  small  old 
church  of  Burnham  to  here  the  service  read,  and  Hester 
Burnham  sat  in  the  same  pew  with  my  mother,  and  held  her 
hand  in  hers  the  whole  time.  They  stood  at  a  little  distance 
off,  and  watched  the  lowering  of  the  two  coffins  into  the 
grave  ;  and  then  they  went  away  by  themselves — whither,  I 
know  not. 

My  mother  could  not  remain  in  the  place,  so  I  decided  up- 
on taking  her  with  me  up  to  London.  Fortunately,  the  man 
whose  farm  lay  adjacent  to  that  of  my  uncle  was  not  only 
anxious  to  take  up  the  lease,  but  was  willing  to  purchase  the 
entire  stock  of  the  farm.  I  had  a  lawyer  sent  down  from 
London  ;  the  necessary  valuations  made,  and  the  transfer  of 
the  farm  was  complete.  The  proceeds  of  the  sale — some- 
where about  ^2500,  were  invested  on  mortgage  for  my  mother, 
along  with  a  few  hundred  pounds  that  my  father  had  saved  up, 
through  much  economy,  for  her  whom  he  so  dearly  loved.  My 
own  small  fortune  of  ^"1800  was  invested  in  a  similar  way. 

These  matters  being  settled,  we  left  the  quiet  Bucking- 
hamshire valley,  and  came  up  to  London.  There  being  no 
use  in  taking  a  house  for  us  two  solitary  creatures,  I  engaged 
some  furnished  rooms  in  a  house  that  looked  over  upon  Prim- 
rose-hill— a  situation  that  pleased  my  mother  much.  She 
protested  against  the  expense  of  the  rooms,  however,  until  I 
pointed  out  to  her  that  our  income  did  not  consist  exclusively 
of  the  interest  on  these  investments.  Still,  she  begged  me 
to  be  cautious,  and  was  nearly  out  of  her  senses  when  Polly 
Whistler  and  I,  laying  our  heads  together,  invented  a  new 
style  of  decoration  for  her  neck  and  the  upper  part  of  her 
dress,  and  had  the  same  composed  of  rather  luxurious  materials. 
She  positively  blushed  when  she  arrayed  herself  in  these 


122  KILMENY. 

things,  and  Polly  said  she  looked  like  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 
become  respectable. 

Polly  frequently  came  to  see  us.  My  mother  was  inclined 
to  be  afraid  of  her  at  first.  Polly's  blunt  and  ready  talk,  hei 
rather  masculine  wit,  and  the  careless  manner  in  which  she 
snapped  her  fingers  at  a  good  many  social  observances,  were 
calculated  to  impress  the  mind  of  the  simple  countrywoman 
with  the  notion  that  this  young  lady  was  rather  a  dangerous 
person.  The  very  first  evening  she  came  to  see  us,  our  talk 
had  wandered  somehow  into  reminiscences  of  old  dramas. 
Incidentally  Polly  remarked,  quite  calmly — 

"  Ah,  in  those  days  actresses  wore  clothes." 

"  Don't  they  now  ?  "  said  my  mother,  simply. 

Polly  laughed ;  and,  when  she  had  left,  my  mother  asked 
with  some  concern  what  sort  of  strange  young  woman  that 
was,  who  made  very  odd  remarks,  and  was  so  carelessly  easy 
in  her  manner.  By  and  by,  when  they  got  to  know  each 
other  better,  my  mother  became  rather  fond  of  the  girl  and 
her  wild  speeches  and  pranks ;  but  there  was  never  at  this 
time  perfect  intercommunion  between  them. 

Bright  and  clever  as  she  was,  Polly  had  not  a  grain  of 
finesse  in  her  composition.  Doubtless  the  principal  reason 
that  she  came  to  see  us  so  often  was  that  she  found  in  our  house 
a  refuge  from  the  annoyances  of  her  own  home ;  but  several 
times  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  came  merely  because  she 
wanted  to  here  of  Owen  Heatherleigh.  She  never  had  the 
skill  to  hide  her  interest  in  him,  nor  the  address  to  conceal 
the  satisfaction  she  felt  in  hearing  him  spoken  of.  Many  a 
girl  would  have  assumed  a  fine  air  of  carelessness,  and  made 
believe  to  mention  his  name  accidentally;  but  Polly,  in  a 
hesitating  way,  and  generally  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  used 
to  ask  me  how  Mr.  Heatherleigh  was,  and  how  he  was  going 
on  with  his  work. 

This  was  one  point  on  which  an  astonishing  change  had 
come  over  Heatherleigh.  He  had  returned  from  Brighton 
before  his  holiday  was  out ;  and  he  had  no  sooner  come  back 
to  his  lodgings  in  Granby  Street  than  he  set  to  work  in  quite 
an  unusual  way  to  get  his  pictures  forward.  The  transfor- 
mation surprised  me  all  the  more  that  I  knew  he  had  not 
spent  the  whole  of  the  money  he  had  earned  before  going  down 
to  Brighton.  There  was  even  an  expression  of  purpose  on 
his  face  that  I  had  never  previously  noticed.  He  gave  up 
his  indolent  lounging,  his  wanderings  about  Regent's  Park, 
his  lazy  forenoons  in  an  easy-chair  with  Ueberweg's  "  Logik" 
or  Spencer's  "  Social  Statics "  before  his  eyes.  He  even 


IN  LONDON  AGAIX.  123 

dressed  himself  with  a  trifle  more  care,  although  he  had  sub- 
sided into  utter  Bohemianism  of  habit. 

One  evening  Heatherleigh  was  sitting  with  me,  smoking 
and  chatting.  My  mother,  having  a  slight  headache,  had  re- 
tired early ;  and  we  two  were  left  by  ourselves.  She  had 
scarcely  gone,  when  a  maid-servant  came  to  the  door  and 
announced  Miss  Whistler.  Polly  walked  lightly  in,  expecting 
to  see  my  mother  ;  but  when  her  eyes  rested  on  Heatherleigh 
she  involuntarily  retreated  a  step,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
silent  and  embarrassed.  He  had  risen  from  his  chair  at  the 
same  moment,  and  was  about  to  advance  when  he  noticed 
her  confusion,  and  paused  irresolutely,  while  I  think  he  looked 
as  confused  and  vexed  as  she  did. 

"  Mrs.  Ives  is  not  at  home  ?  "  she  said  to  me. 

With  that  Heatherleigh  had  come  forward,  and  she  shook 
hands  with  him  formally  and  coldly. 

"  She  has  gone  up-stairs.  Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down, 
Polly  ?  " 

"  I  only  ran  up  in  passing,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "  I  will 
call  some  other  evening.  Good-bye." 

So  she  went  out.  Heatherleigh  had  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  without  saying  a  word.  The  moment  she  had 
left,  however,  he  instantly  opened  the  door  and  went  after  her. 

"  Polly,"  I  heard  him  say,  almost  roughly,  "  don't  be  stupid. 
Come  back  at  once,  and  let  us  have  this  thing  settled — let  me 
understand  what  you  mean  by  it." 

She  came  back  quite  submissively,  he  having  his  hand  on 
her  arm. 

"  Come,  Ted,"  he  said,  "  you  know  more  about  it  than  I 
do.  Get  her  to  tell  me  what  the  matter  is — why  she  should 
fly  from  me  as  if  I  were  an  ogre.  What  is  the  matter,  Polly 
— have  I  offended  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  anything  to  find  fault  with  me  for  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why,  then,  are  .we  not  friends  as  we  used  to  be  ?  "  he  said, 
with  some  wonder  in  his  eyes. 

I  saw  this  was  becoming  very  painful  for  the  girl,  and  F 
said — 

*'  Polly  can't  tell  you,  Heatherleigh  ;  but  I  will — only  you 
might  know  it  yourself.  You  remember  the  night  Mrs. 
Whistler  came  up  to  your  studio  ?  She  talked  a  lot  of  non- 
sense ;  and  Polly  won't  understand  that  both  you  and  I  knew 
it  was  nonsense." 

"  Is  that  all,  Polly  ?  "  he  asked. 


121  KI LATE  NY. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  don't  care  whether  you 
believe  what  she  said  of  me  or  not.  But  you  were  good 
enough  to  make  me  a  sort  of  acquaintance  of  yours,  you  know  ; 
and  after  you  have  seen  what — what  my  mother  is,  I  shouldn't 
like  to  continue — " 

"  What  absurdity,  Polly !  "  he  said,  going  forward  and  seizing 
her  hand  in  spite  of  herself.  "  Ted  hinted  something  like 
that  to  me,  and  I  scarcely  believed  him.  Why  should  your 
mother  interfere  to  break  up  our  very  pleasant  friendship  ? 
Why,  the  evenings  that  we  three  have  spent  together,  when  I 
look  back  on  them,  seem  to  me  about  the  happiest  portion  of 
my  life.  And  neither  of  you  two  ever  looked  very  miserable. 
I  say,  what  has  your  mother  to  do  with  it  ?  She  was  excited 
— and — and  said  some  things — which — " 

"  My  mother  was  drunk,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  hard  voice, 
drawing  away  her  hand  from  his,  "  and  she  insulted  me  before 
you,  and  she  insulted  you.  She  would  insult  you  again  if  she 
saw  you.  If  she  knew  that  I  went  up  to  your  studio,  to  sit 
to  you,  she  would  haunt  the  place,  and  persecute  me  and 
annoy  you.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  do  not  wish  to  be  beholden 
to  you  for  forbearance  shown  to  her  ?  I  liked  to  meet  you 
both  well  enough  when  I  was  independent  of  you  ;  but  now 
your  acquaintance  would  be  a  sort  of  charity.  Is  that  plain 
enough  ?  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  my  mother  would  clo. 
Last  night  she  wanted  money — I  had  none.  She  said  if  I 
did  not  get  her  money  she  would  go  down  and  demand  it 
from  Mr.  Layton  ;  and  she  went  and  put  on  her  bonnet. 
What  was  I  to  do  ?  I  took  my  brooch  that  old  Mr.  Herbert 
gave  me  when  he  left  for  Italy,  and  went  out,  and — and 
pawned  it." 

The  girl  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  God,  that  this  should  be  !  "  muttered  Heatherleigh  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

I  took  Polly  by  the  shoulders,  and  drew  her  into  a  chair, 
and  untied  her  bonnet. 

"  You  sha'n't  leave  this  house  this  night,"  I  said,  "  until  we 
come  to  some  better  arrangement.  We  will  have  a  bit  of 
supper,  in  the  old  way,  you  know,  and  a  talk  over  matters  ; 
and  surely  we  shall  be  able  to  devise  some  means  of  giving 
you  your  liberty." 

"  Well,"  said  Polly,  brightening  up,  "  I  am  safe  here,  for 
she  doesn't  know  your  address.  That  is  why  I  come  to  your 
house  so  often.  J3ut  how  are  you  going  to  give  me  my  es- 
cape ? " 

"  We'll  see  about  supper  first,"  said  I. 


IN  L  ON  DON  AC  A IX.  125 

The  small  maid-servant  was  called  up  and   interrogated 
about  the  contents  of  the  larder.     Eventually  a  very  pr 
able  little  supper  was  placed  on  the  table,  and  then  I  pro- 
duced a  bottle  of  champagne. 

"  You  are  destroying  the  simple  and  appropriate  character 
of  our  suppers  of  old,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  But  on  this  occasion  it  is  with  a  purpose,  which  you  shall 
soon  learn." 

Don't  imagine,  however,  that  I  had  started  an  expensive 
wine-cellar  out  of  our  modest  income.  Including  everything, 
I  suppose  our  annual  receipts  amounted  to  about  £250,  and 
at  that  time,  when  there  were  fewer  champagnes  sent  to  the 
English  market,  a  man  who,  on  an  income  of  ^250  a  year, 
offered  you  champagne,  might  reasonably  have  been  asked  to 
present  to  your  friends  the  cost  of  a  post-mortem  examination. 
My  champagne  came  to  me  through  a  picture-dealer,  \\h-j 
owed  me  a  small  sum  for  a  picture,  and  who,  having  had  to 
seize  his  customer's  goods  in  payment  for  this  and  other  pict- 
ures, paid  me  in  kind. 

So  we  sat  down  to  the  supper-table,  and  got  on  very  com- 
fortably, although  Polly  would  not  drink  more  than  half  a 
glass  of  wine.  I  suppose  she  wished  to  show  that  she  had 
not  inherited  the  tastes  of  her  mother ;  but  the  poor  girl  need 
not  have  imagined  that  we  wanted  any  proof.  However,  the 
tiny  quantity  was  just  sufficient  to  brighten  up  her  spirits. 

"  Is  your  mother  a  Londoner  ?  "  asked  Heatherleigh,  of 
Polly. 

"  No  ;  she  came  from  Greenwich  to  London." 

"  Has  she  friends  there  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  a  sort." 

"  Suppose  I  offered  her  a  sovereign  a  week  to  go  and  live 
there,  would  she  go  and  leave  you  unmolested  here  ?  " 

"  And  pray,"  said  Polly,  proudly,  "  in  what  way  would  you 
have  me  explain  to  my  friends  that  you  were  supporting  my 
mother  ? " 

This  was  a  poser;  although  I  fancy  Heatherleigh,  under 
his  breath,  expressed  a  wish  about  her  friends  that  was  very 
uncharitable. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Heatherleigh,  awkwardly.  "  I  didn't 
mean  that  I  should  pay  her  directly.  If  you  could  make 
some  such  arrangement  with  her,  I  should  help  you,  at  least, 
to  make  up  what  you  want." 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  what  you  are  saying,"  said  Polly, 
with  her  cheeks  flushed.  "You  are  offering  me  money." 

"  You're  as  bad  as  Ted  !  "  said  Heatherleigh,  impatiently. 


126  KILMENY. 

"  You're  worse,  for  I  can't  bully  you  into  common-sense,  as 
I  can  him.  Here  are  we  three  people  sitting  together,  pro- 
fessing to  be  friends  with  each  other.  If  I  don't  mistake,  we 
have  precious  few  friends  elsewhere.  We  have  no  rich  rela- 
tions to  turn  to,  even  if  we  cared  to  turn  to  them.  We 
have  no  great  desire,  I  suppose,  beyond  being  able  to  live  a 
comfortable  life,  and  help  each  other,  if  we  can.  Why  should 
we  not  help  each  other  ?  When  you  are  not  in  want  of  any- 
thing, you  say,  *  Oh,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  have  friends  you 
can  rely  on  in  time  of  need  ! '  Then  the  time  of  need  comes, 
and  you  say,  '  No,  your  help  looks  too  much  like  charity.' 
Come,  Polly,  be  reasonable.  The  money  you  need  for  this 
purpose  is  a  mere  trifle  ;  it  is  impossible  I  could  miss  it.  On 
the  other  hand,  look  at  the  happiness  the  sense  of  freedom 
will  add  to  your  life.  Look  at  the  many  pleasant  evenings, 
like  this,  which  we  might  all  have  together." 

I  did  not  add  my  solicitations  to  his,  because  I  knew  she 
would  not  consent. 

"  I  ought  not  to  leave  my  mother,  for  one  thing,"  she  said. 

This  was  but  a  poor  excuse  ;  and  he  saw  that  it  was  an  ex- 
cuse. 

"  You  are  ruining  your  mother,"  he  said,  impetuously. 
"  You  have  yielded  to  her  so  that  she  does  what  she  likes. 
There  is  no  control  being  exercised  over  her.  Now,  down 
among  people  she  knew,  she  might  be  induced  to  start  well, 
and  continue  well.  There  must  be  some  pride  in  her  which 
would  make  her  keep  herself  straight  before  her  neighbors. 
You  are  doing  her  harm,  instead  of  good,  at  present,  besides 
destroying  your  own  life  for  no  purpose  whatever.  Come, 
won't  you  accept  this  trifling  help  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Why  ?     There  must  be  some  other  reason." 

"Well,  there  is,"  she  said,  provoked  into  frankness,  and  yet 
appearing  terribly  confused.  "  Don't  you  see  that  men  can 
give  money  to  each  other;  but  it  is  different  between  a  wo- 
man and  a  man — especially  when — when  they  are  not  in  the 
same  position  ? " 

The  girl's  cheeks  were  burning;  and  the  story  that  her 
manner  conveyed  was  so  clear  and  palpable  that  I  could  not 
understand  his  not  perceiving  it. 

He  was  puzzled,  at  least ;  and  he  saw  that  it  would  be  un- 
advisable  to  press  the  subject  just  then. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  said,  with  a  shrug,  "  if  you  must  be 
hunted  about,  we  can  still  meet  here,  unless  Ted  becomes  too 
much  of  a  gentleman  to  care  about  harboring  us  waifs." 


K1LMEXY.  1:7 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  some  surprise.  The  cool  way 
in  which  he  had  proposed  that  they  two  should  meet  there 
was  in  itself  peculiar.  Heatherleigh  seemed  to  be  in  a  fog, 
and  was  blundering  about  at  random. 

"  Yes,"  said  Polly,  "  Mrs.  Ives  has  been  very  kind  in  ask- 
ing me  to  come  here.  But  I  must  go  now — it  must  be  nearly 
eleven." 

"First,  though,"  I  said,  "you  must  see  what  I  have  got  to 
show  you.  Didn't  I  say  that  I  had  a  design  upon  you  ?  I 
have  dazed  the  intellect  of  my  critics  with  wine  ;  i  have  bribed 
them  with  meat  and  with  drink ;  and  now — I  will  show  them 
my  picture." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

KILMENY. 

Do  you  know  the  legend  of  Freir,  the  sun-god,  who,  looking 
from  the  heights  of  Hlidskialf  over  all  the  world,  let  his  eyes 
fall  upon  Jotunheim,  the  land  of  the  giants,  and  there  saw 
the  maiden  Gerda,  near  the  house  of  Gymir,  her  father?  She 
was  so  fair  and  comely  that  the  white  beauty  of  her  arms 
caused  the  seas  to  shimmer  in  light ;  and  Freir  went  home 
sick  at  heart  for  love  of  her.  Then  he  called  to  him  his  serv- 
ant Skirnir,  and  told  him  all  his  woes  ;  and  Skirnir,  demand- 
ing from  him  his  swift  horse,  that  could  bear  him  through 
flames,  and  his  magical  sword,  set  out  for  Jotunheim,  to  carry 
the  message  of  his  master's  love.  Gymir's  house  he  finds 
guarded  by  furious  bloodhounds,  and  by  a  keeper,  who  asks 
Skirnir  if  he  is  near  death  or  already  dead.  But  the  beauti- 
ful Gerda  wonders  what  the  strange  noises  portend,  and  sends 
her  maiden  to  invite  the  messenger  in  and  give  him  of  the 
soft  mead.  Skirnir  tells  the  story  of  his  master's  pain  ;  offers 
her  presents,  and  threatens  her  with  divers  troubles  if  she  re- 
fuse ;  whereupon  Gymir's  godlike  daughter  inclines  a  gracious 
ear,  and  promises  to  wed  the  son  of  Niordr  after  nine  nights 
have  passed. 

This  was  the  story  I  thought  of,  when  I  strolled  around  the 
Serpentine  one  misty  evening,  wondering  what  subject  I 
should  take  for  a  picture.  You  know,  the  German  commen- 
tators have  got  strange  meanings  out  of  this  mystic  story  of 
the  Elder  Edda  ;  and  Freir,  according  to  them,  being  the 


128  KILMENY. 

sun-god,  and  the  maiden  Gerda  the  auroral  light  whose  beauty 
caused  the  seas  to  shine,  might  not  the  messenger  be  the  pale 
dawn,  come  to  woo  her  in  the  ghostly  regions  of  Jotunheim  ? 
But  the  subject  was  too  big  and  vague  ;  and  I  gave  it  up  in 
despair. 

Then  I  bethought  me  of  an  old  ballad,  in  which  a  king's 
daughter  is  claimed  by  the  skipper  of  a  vessel  as  his  reward 
for  steering  her  father  and  his  knights  safely  through  a 
storm.  But  how  to  paint  the  mist  of  sea-foam  around  the 
girl  and  her  lover — how  to  fill  the  picture  with  the  blackness 
of  the  north  wind  and  the  motion  of  rain  and  wave  and  cloud 
— with  here  and  there  a  fear-stricken  face — with  the  scornful 
laugh  of  the  skipper,  and  the  clinging,  terrified  love  of  his 
bride  ?  That,  too,  I  gave  up.  I  was  too  familiar  with  the 
moods  of  the  sea  to  dare  the  attempt  at  painting  them. 

Yet  I  instinctively  turned  to  the  North  for  the  subject  I 
wanted — to  the  region  of  wind  and  mist,  of  legendary  mur- 
murs that  still  reach  us,  full  of  a  passionate  and  tragic  pathos. 
Should  it  be  the  story  of  young  Aikin  and  the  Lacly  Mar- 
garet ?  or  of  how  Gil  Morice,  with  the  yellow  hair,  was  slain  ? 
or  of  how  young  Hynde  Horn  stole  his  bride  ?  or  of  how  the 
Earl  of  Mar's  daughter  was  carried  off  by  her  lover  ?  One 
or  two  of  these  I  did  try,  to  no  purpose.  The  result  was  bare 
and  tawdry — wanting  that  very  glamour  and  vagueness  which 
fascinate  one  in  the  old  legends.  Their  strong  and  powerful 
colors  appear  to  us,  as  it  were,  through  a  mist  of  rain  ;  you 
know  that  the  Earl  of  Mar's  daughter  wears  a  glowing  scarlet 
cloak,  but  the  color  of  it  glimmers  from  the  other  side  of  this 
veil,  and  the  beauty  of  her  face  is  almost  without  outline. 

At  last,  my  erratic  and  ambitious  notions  had  to  make  a 
compromise  with  my  disproportionate  skill ;  and  I  chose  as 
a  subject  the  simple  figure  of  Kilmeny,  when  she  came  home 
"late,  late  in  the  gloaming." 

Need  I  say  how  many  times  I  attempted  to  put  upon  can- 
vas some  faint  reflection  of  the  strange  and  mystic  beauty  of 
the  poem  ?  After  innumerable  trials,  I  found  that  I  was  be- 
ginning with  too  great  an  effort.  In  my  anxiety  to  have  some- 
thing wistful  and  wonderful  about  Kilmeny's  face,  I  was  for- 
getting that  the  very  beauty  of  the  conception  lay  in  its  waver- 
ing, uncertain,  shadowy  character.  To  have  painted  her  with 
an  aureole  of  light  around  her  face  would  have  made  Kilmeny 
a  fairy,  not  a  wonder-stricken  girl,  who  had  come  home  "  to 
see  the  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  countrye."  The  magic 
of  Kilmeny's  presence,  that  charmed  all  things  around  her, 


KII.MI-.\Y.  129 

was  not  the  magic  of  a  necromancer  nor  "the  witchery  of  a 
wild  spirit.     For 

..."  Oh,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 
But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  ee ; 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 
For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maiden's  een 
In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen." 

With  such  a  conception  before  him,  how  could  any  mortal 
man  be  satisfied  by  any  possible  transference  of  it  into  pig- 
ments T  Besides,  I  was  struggling  with  innumerable  other 
difficulties,  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  mention.  Only  he 
who  has  striven  to  effect  some  artistic  work  with  an  insuffi- 
cient acquaintance  with  technical  means  can  understand  what 
I  suffered  then. 

However,  I  resolved  to  finish  a  sketch  of  the  picture  first ; 
and  here  at  once  I  found  some  freedom.  I  was  not  so  afraid  of 
the  result ;  and  in  time  I  produced  a  sort  of  rough  draft  of 
what  I  hoped  the  picture  would  be.  It  was  this  sketch  which 
I  now  brought  to  show  Heatherleigh  and  Polly  Whistler. 
My  gayety  had  been  only  feigned.  I  was  as  frightened  to 
show  them  this  rude  effort  as  though  I  had  been  an  appren- 
tice to  Michael  Angelo,  and  had  finished  my  first  commission. 
I  brought  down  my  easel  with  it,  placed  the  picture,  and 
stepped  back  to  Polly's  side,  not  daring  to  utter  a  word,  even 
of  apology. 

She  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  placed  her 
hand  on  my  arm. 

"  Oh,  Ted  !  did  you  do  that  ? "  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

I  drank  in  those  words  ;  for  what  they  implied  was  music 
to  me.  Yet  she  stood  there,  looking  strangely  at  the  pict- 
ure ;  and  I  could  not  help,  even  then,  daring  to  hope  that  some 
other  one,  whom  I  had  often  thought  of  in  painting  the  pict- 
ure, would  look  at  it  with  the  same  expression  that  was  now 
visible  in  Polly's  kindly  eyes. 

"  It  is  like  a  dream,"  she  said  slowly,  "  and  yet  not  a  dream, 
for  it  makes  ones  feel  cold.  Where  did  you  see  that  strange 
face,  Ted  ? " 

"  I  know,"  said  Heatherleigh,  curtly. 

He  looked  at  the  picture  for  a  long  time,  and  then  he  said, 
rather  absently — 

"  You  must  not  work  for  me  any  more,  Ted." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you   have  beaten  me  in  the  race.     Or,  rather, 
there  was  no  race  :  I  gave  up  that  notion  long  ago." 
9 


130  K1LMEXY. 

There  are  some  compliments  you  can  laugh  off ;  this  was 
not  one  of  them.  There  was  a  certain  sadness  in  Heather- 
leigh's  tone  that  showed  he  was  thinking  of  his  own  career  and 
of  its  hopeless  future.  I  think  he  knew  he  could  never  be  a 
great  artist ;  but  it  was  seldom,  indeed,  that  this  conviction 
seemed  to  weigh  upon  him. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  capable  of  work  like  that,"  he  said. 
"  You  must  waste  no  more  of  your  time  in  my  manufactory. 
You  must  make  way  for  yourself.  I  will  get  this  picture  sold 
for  you." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  sell  It.  I  mean  to  paint  from  it  a  larger 
picture  for — " 

"The  Academy?  Yes;  I  thought  so.  Well,  you  will 
make  an  enormous  blunder  if  you  try  to  elaborate  a  subject 
like  that.  I  know  you  will.  Let  the  picture  stand  as  it  is — 
sell  it  to  some  private  gentleman — and  get  the  lo'an  of  it  again 
for  the  Academy.  Don't  you  think  so,  Polly  ? " 

"If  he  touches  it  he  will  spoil  it.  But  where  did  you  get 
that  face,  Ted  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  said  Heatherleigh,  again. 

"  She  doesn't  live  in  Hampstead  Road  ?  "  said  Polly,  with  a 
smile.  "  If  she  does,  I  may  shut  up  my  shop." 

"  No,  she  doesn't  live  in  Hampstead  Road,"  he  said,  "  and 
she  is  not  likely  to  become  a  rival  of  yours,  Polly.  Perhaps, 
if  you  saw  herself,  you  would  say  that  a  good  deal  of  that 
strange,  dream-like  look  is  Ted's  own  creation.  And  yet  she 
is  very  pretty — the  Kilmeny  I  speak  of." 

"  You  both  know  her  ?  "  cried  Polly,  with  a  sudden  inspira- 
tion. "  Why,  it  must  be  Bonnie  Lesley  !  " 

"  No,"  said  Heatherleigh,  dryly ;  and  there  was  nothing 
further  said  upon  that  point. 

Yet  I  was  greatly  dismayed  and  vexed  that  he  should  see 
a  likeness  which  I  had  vainly  striven  to  convince  myself  did 
not  exist.  I  have  long  ago  been  forgiven  by  the  original  of  my 
Kilmeny  for  having  travestied  her  upon  canvas ;  and  the 
matter  is  of  small  importance  now ;  but  this  I  must  say,  that 
I  never  dreamed  of  copying  her  perfect  features  when  I 
sketched  the  picture.  I  thought  of  the  most  beautiful  crea- 
ture I  knew ;  and  her  face  and  eyes,  unconsciously  to  myself, 
began  to  grow  out  of  the  canvas.  Heatherleigh's  recognition 
was  the  first  token  I  received  that  others  were  likely  to  accuse 
me  of  attempting  what  I  never  consciously  would  have  dared 
to  attempt. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Polly,  at  length.     "  No,  neither  of  you 


}  .  131 

shall  come  with  me.     I  do  not  wish  to  be  prevented  from  see- 
ing you  again." 

he  went  off  alone.     But  she  had  scarcely  got  out  of  the 
house  when  Heatherleigh  rose  and  took  his  hat. 

"  \Ve  must  see  that  she  gets  home  safe,  Ted.  Let's  follow 
her  at  a  distance." 

This  we  did  ;  nor  was  Polly  ever  aware  of  our  dogging  her 
footsteps  all  the  way  home.  When  she  had  finally  disap- 
peared, Heatherleigh  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely,  and  he 
said,  as  we  turned  away — 

"  There  is  a  very  good  girl,  if  ever  one  lived." 

"True  for  you,"  said  I. 

"  We  must  find  some  means  of  getting  her  out  of  the 
clutches  of  that  wretched  woman.  It  is  unbearable  that  a 
girl  like  her  should  suffer  such  martrydom ;  and  as  for  her 
notions  of  filial  duty,  she  must  abandon  what  is  romance  or 
folly  or  madness." 

"  She  has  no  notions  of  the  kind,"  said  I.  "The  girl  has 
too  much  common-sense  to  think  that  she  ought  to  waste  her 
life  in  living  with  an  irreclaimable  old  idiot,  who  only  behaves 
the  worse  because  of  her  daughter's  forbearance  and  kind- 
ness." 

"  Then  why  did  she  refuse  to  accept  my  offer  ? " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

Of  course,  I  did  know ;  but  I  could  scarcely  persuade  my- 
self that  he  was  not  assuming  ignorance  in  order  to  fish  for 
confirmation  of  his  suspicions.  For  some  time  we  walked 
on  in  silence,  until  we  had  got  near  the  tall  railings  of  Re- 
gent's Park  again.  It  was  a  clear  starlight  night. 

"  Heatherleigh,"  said  I,  "  I  should  be  sorry  to  give  up  work- 
ing with  you,  as  you  suggested — perhaps  by  way  of  compli- 
ment— so  long  as  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you.  You  know 
how  I  am  indebted  to  you.  I  never  hope  to  repay  you  ;  but 
I  should  consider  it  rather  despicable  of  me  to  fly  off  from 
our  bargain  the  moment  I  saw  I  might  better  myself  some- 
what." 

"  But  there  is  another  reason,"  said  he.  "  First  and  fore- 
most, if  you  can  paint  pictures  like  that  Kilmeny  it  would  be 
monstrous  that  you  should  waste  your  time  in  drudgery.  I 
tell  you,  Lewison  could  get  you  a  dozen  men  to-morrow  who 
would  buy  the  picture  eagerly." 

"  Do  you  think  any  one  would  recognize  the  likeness  that 
you  recognized  ? " 

"Certainly." 

"  Then  I  must  alter  the  face  before  any  one  else  sees  it." 


132  KILMENY. 

"  You'll  be  a  fool  if  you  da  However,  here  is  the  other 
reason  why  you  should  hive  off.  I  was  selfishly  glad  of  your 
assistance,  because  it  allowed  me  to  have  plenty  of  ease  and 
laziness.  Now,  I  mean  to  go  in  for  making  some  little  sum 
of  money  to  keep  by  me,  and  I  shall  work  as  much  as  I  can, 
and  get  as  much  money  as  I  can  for  the  work.  You  under- 
stand ? " 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  continued,  apologetically,  "  there  is 
no  saying  what  might  happen  to  a  fellow  like  me,  quite  un- 
prepared for  any  emergency.  I  might  want  to  assist  a  friend 
in  distress,  or  I  might  take  some  whim  in  my  head  that 
needed  money  ;  and  where  should  I  be  ? " 

"  Quite  true." 

"  Besides,  I  have  been  living  a  purposeless  sort  of  life — 
an  aimless,  lotos-eating  hedgehog  sort  of  existence,  that  is 
pleasant  enough  at  the  time,  but  not  very  satisfactory  to 
look  back  upon." 

"  That  is  also  true." 

"So  I  mean  to  pull  myself  together  a  bit,  and  see  what 
I  can  do.  Mind  you,  I  have  no  intention  of  satisfying  any 
ambition.  That  has  been  knocked  out  of  me  long  ago. 
When  I  cut  my  family,  and  threw  myself  upon  the  world  to 
fight  my  own  way,  I  fancied  that  I  had  in  me  that  which 
would  make  me  richer  in  the  end.  I  fancied  that  I  could 
cope  with  all  these  crushing  conditions  that  hem  in  a  poor 
man,  who  has  no  parental  fortune  to  back  him,  and  no  rich 
relations  to  take  him  by  the  arm,  and  lead  him  into  good  so- 
ciety, and  forward  his  interests  and  chances  in  life.  I  was 
going  to  do  for  myself  what  other  men  get  done  for  them. 
I  was  going  to  fight  the  world  unaided  and  single-handed. 
Now  I  made  two  mistakes.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  a  blun- 
der to  think  I  could  do  so,  even  if  I  had  had  the  powers 
I  fancied  I  possessed ;  and  the  notion  that  I  had  them  was  a 
second  blunder.  You  see,  I  wanted  to  open  the  big  oyster 
without  a  knife.  I  failed.  I  did  my  best ;  but  when  I  found 
my  best  was  ludicrously  inadequate,  I  did  not  become  misan- 
thropic. I  took  the  matter  quietly  ;  and  in  a  short  time  had 
acquired  sufficient  wisdom  to  laugh  at  my  own  folly.  I  am 
not  going  to  engage  the  world  any  more.  Society  and  its 
conditions  are  loo  strong  for  me.  I  give  in.  Perhaps  I  have 
no  great  ambition  now  to  figure  as  an  important  person  at 
swell  houses,  in  the  park,  at  conversaziones,  and  so  forth. 
Perhaps  I  don't  care  to  compete  for  the  favor  of  elderly  ladies, 
or  young  ones  either,  with  this  poor  lad  whose  father  has 


Till-:  II  'HITE  DO  1 y-:.Y.  1 33 

left  him  a  small  brain,  a  title,  and  an  encumbered  estate,  or 
that  equally  dull  lad  whose  father  has  left  him  £20,000  a 
year,  and  the  sentiments  and  sympathies  of  a  hostler.  I  am 
very  well  satisfied  with  my  ill-fortune.  But  this  notion  of 
mine,  which  I  mention  to  you,  is  only  a  precaution  to  keep 
my  present  position  safe  for  me.  That  is  all.  If  you  limit 
your  aims  sufficiently,  you  can  always  be  successful  ;  and  I 
think  I  shall  be  able  to  get  the  little  nest-egg  I  want." 

'•  I  know  you  will,"  I  said. 

\Ye  had  reached  the  door  of  my  lodgings.  As  I  stood  on 
the  steps,  and  shook  hands  with  him,  I  said — 

"After  all,  I  think  I  must  tell  you  a  secret  which  you 
ought  to  have  discovered  for  yourself.  Do  you  know  why 
Polly  would  never  go  near  you  after  that  scene  with  her 
mother  ? " 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  understand  the  reason  she  and  you  ad- 
vanced." 

"  Do  you  know  why  she  wanted  to  go  away  when  she  saw 
you  were  here  to-night  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Or  why  she  refused  to  accept  the  money  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Because,  then,  as  I  believe,  the  girl  is  as  deeply  in  love 
with  you  as  ever  a  girl  was  with  a  man.  There,  you  may 
think  over  that  at  your  leisure.  Good-night ! " 

His  back  was  turned  to  the  lamplight,  so  that  I  could  not 
see  what  expression  his  face  bore.  But  he  did  not  speak  a 
word  :  and  so  I  left  him,  and  went  inside. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE   WHITE   DOVES. 

"  THAT  wur  a  rare  good  shot,  sir,  that  wur.  You  couldn't 
ha'  gone  nearer  her  without  'iting  of  her.  Look  at  the  turnip- 
blades  thear,  where  she  wur  a  sitting,  all  riddled  wi'  the 
shot." 

Heatherleigh  and  I  looked  over  the  hedge,  and  saw  before 
us,  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  field  of  turnips,  a  very  big 
and  stout  farmer,  who  was  mopping  a  roseate  face  with  a  red 
pocket-handkerchief,  while  he  grumbled  out  his  wrath  over 
some  annoyance.  This  was  Mr.  Stephen  Toomer,  who  had 
taken  my  uncle's  farm,  and  was  now  engaged  in  shooting 


I34  A'fLMEXY. 

over  it.  Toomer  was  a  tall  and  corpulent  man,  with  a  thick 
neck,  a  bullet  head,  a  quick  temper,  and  a  round,  jolly  red 
face,  which  had  two  black  beads  of  eyes,  and  was  surmounted 
by  short-cropped  black  hair.  He  was  a  stupid,  well-meaning, 
irascible  man,  who  was  very  fond  of  shooting,  and  could  not 
shoot  a  bit.  My  uncle,  when  angry  at  Toomer's  missing 
some  easy  shot,  used  to  say  to  him — 

"  I'm  darned  if  you  ain't  the  biggest  fool  I  know.  Why 
doan't  ye  let  the  shootin'  over  your  farm  to  some  mahn  as  '11  hit 
something,  and  you  go  and  fire  off  your  powder  and  shot  at 
butterflies  and  bees  ?  They'd  do  ye  quite  as  well,  and  you 
might  kill  some  on  'em  sometimes." 

Toomer  was  accompanied  on  this  occasion  by  his  bailiff, 
who  also  acted  as  his  gamekeeper,  and  told  a  hundred  lies  an 
hour  in  order  to  excuse  his  master's  missing  everything  in 
the  shape  of  partridge,  hare,  or  rabbit  that  came  in  his  way. 
The  fabulous  flakes  of  fur  he  found  about  the  turnip-blades, 
the  imaginary  feathers  that  came  floating  down  from  the  tail 
of  a  pheasant  that  was  thirty  yards  out  of  shot  before  Toomer 
fired,  the  fictitious  "  warmers "  that  perfectly  untouched 
partridges  were  supposed  to  carry  away  with  them,  did  credit 
to  old  Kinch's  imagination  and  wit.  But  when  his  master, 
in  one  of  his  rare  fits  of  generosity,  offered  some  neighbor  a 
day's  shooting,  Kinch  made  up  for  his  flattery  by  discharging 
himself  of  all  his  accumulated  sarcasm  upon  the  new-comer. 
Then  there  were  no  flakes  of  fur  or  feathers  found.  On  the 
contrary,  the  new-comer  had  "  never  gone  a-nigh  'em." 
"What  wur  the  use  o'  shooting  birds  i'  the  next  parish?" 
"  Why,  that  hare  wur  through  the  'edge  afore  ye  fired  ;  "  and 
so  on. 

"  Ah,  how  be  ye,  Mahster  Ives  ?  "  said  Stephen  Toomer, 
coming  over  to  the  hedge  to  shake  hands  with  me,  while  he 
nodded  familiarly  to  Heatherleigh. 

"  Pretty  well.  My  friend  and  I  have  come  down  here  for 
a  week  or  two — " 

"  For  the  shootin'  ? "  he  said,  quickly,  obviously  fearing 
that  we  were  going  to  disturb  his  interesting  and  bloodless 
pastime  by  demanding  permission  to  accompany  him. 

"  No,  not  at  all.  We  want  you,  though,  to  let  us  have  the 
occupation  of  the  Major's  house." 

"  Law,  you  doan't  mean  thaht ! "  he  said,  opening  his  eyes. 

"  Yes  we  do,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Toomer  had  inherited  the  guardianship  of  the  haunted 
house ;  and  he  was  not  the  sort  of  a  man  to  think  of  inter- 
fering with  its  ghostly  immunity  from  occupants. 


THE  WHITE  DOl'ES.  135 

<k  I  mind!  Of  course  I  don't  mind;  but  yc  cahn't  mean 
to  stay  in  that  'ouse  ?  Why  not  come  up  'ere  and  stay  in 
your  own  uncle's  'ouse,  as  you  wur  accustomed  to?  I'll 
make  ye  as  comfortable  as  may  be.  Folks  say  as  you  are  a 
painter  like,  and  mayhap  —  " 

"That's  it.  My  friend  and  I  want  one  or  two  big  empty 
rooms,  with  plenty  of  light  in  them  —  just  like  those  down  at 
the  Major's.  We've  come  up  to  see  if  Mrs.  Toomer  could 
kindly  spare  us  a  couple  of  mattresses  —  to  be  laid  on  the 
floor,  you  know  —  and  a  chair  or  two,  and  a  table.  If  she  will 
oblige  us  so  far,  we  hnve  engaged  old  Mother  llsley  to  come 
and  make  our  breakfast  for  us  —  " 

"  She  woan't  stay  in  that  'ouse  !  "  said  Toomer,  deci- 
sively. 

"  No  ;  she  will  go  back  to  Missenden  at  night.  You  see, 
we  want  a  house  that  is  nearer  Burnham  than  this  is  (thank- 
ing you  for  the  offer),  and  besides  we  are  curious  to  know 
whether  these  stories  about  the  place  are  true." 

Toomer  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  and  then 
found  refuge  in  calling  for  his  bailiff,  to  whom  he  explained 
the  proposal,  with  many  an  ominous  shake  of  the  head. 

"  If  ye  do  mean  it,"  said  he  at  last,  speaking  despondently, 
as  if  we  were  already  the  victims  of  our  rashness,  "  my  missus 
Ml  do  what  she  can  to  make  the  plaace  comfortable  ;  but  I 
'ope  as  ye'll  both  think  better  on  it,  and  not  make  light  o' 
things  as  'ave  puzzled  older  'eads  than  ycurn." 

"It's  a  temptin'  o'  Providence,"  said  Kinch,  solemnly. 
"  Not  as  Mr.  Toomer  or  me  ud  believe  in  ghost-stories  and  all 
thaht  'ere  nonsense  —  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  master,  with  some  dignity. 

"  But  there's  things  around  as  we  doan't  see  and  we  doan't 
understand,  and  I  be  for  lettin'  'em  alone,  I  be." 

"Quite  right,  too,"  said  the  master,  who  was  glad  to  have 
this  wholesome  argument  urged  in  his  defence. 

"  Then  you'll  let  us  have  these  things  ?  Thank  you.  And 
perhaps  you'd  kindly  send  with  them  some  old  gun  or  other, 
just  that  we  may  have  a  shot  at  any  stray  visitor,  you  under- 
stand ?  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  pointer  is  best  for 


"  Your  poor  uncle  wur  a  very  bold  mahn  in  talking  aboti 
them  things  ;  but  he  never  went  ni%h  that  'oitse  after  night- 
fair, 
said  Toomer,  significantly.     "  He  wur  afeared  o'  nothin'  —  " 

"  And  he's  found  out  'is  mistake,"  edged  in  Kinch,  spite- 
fully. 


136  KILMENY 

"  I  say,  be  \vur  afeared  o'  nothin',  and  why  didn't  he  go  a- 
nigh  that  'ouse  arter  nightfall — that's  what  I  wahnt  to  know  ? 
Howsever,  you'll  get  the  bits  o'  things,  and  I'll  send  ye  down 
the  gun  as  Kinch  uses  for  them  sparrers  that  hev  been  hawful 
this  yur.  They're  the  mischievousest  things,  them  sparrers. 
I'm  thinkin'  it  would  puzzle  the  pahrson,  for  all  he  says,  to 
find  out  what  they  were  made  for." 

"  Mother  Ilsley  will  come  over  and  see  about  these  things 
you  have  so  kindly  promised  us.  Meanwhile,  we're  going  on 
to  Burn  ham  House." 

"  To  visit  Miss  Hester,  belike  ? " 

"  No.     To  do  some  work  at  the  House." 

"  Eh !  I  be  rare  glad  to  'ear  it,"  said  Stephen.  "  It's  what 
IVe  allays  said  to  my  missus,  as  there  wur  one  thing  wrong 
about  Burnham  'Ouse  ;  and  that's  the  color  of  the  front,  as  you 
see  it  from  the  havenue.  It's  too  yallow,  that's  what  I  say — 
a  deal  too  yallow ;  and  I  be  glad  to  'ear  as  you  and  your 
friend  'ave  come  down  to  freshen  the  plaace  up  a  bit ;  and  I 
do  hope  as  you'll  alter  that  yallow." 

"We  mean  to  paint  the  inside  of  the  House  first,"  said 
Heatherleigh,  gravely. 

"Well  and  good;  well  and  good,"  said  Mr.  Toomer.  "  I 
doan't  pretend  to  know  any  mahn's  business  but  my  own  ;  but 
what  I  says  is  as  the  front's  too  yallow,  and  I'll  hold  by 
thaht— " 

"  I've  no  doubt  it  is,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  And  I  'ope  as*you  and  Mahster  Ives  '11  put  on  another 
color." 

"  We'll  do  our  best.     Good-morning  !  " 

We  had  come  down  to  paint  some  portions  of  Burnham 
House,  although  we  did  not  mean  to  commence,  as  Stephen 
Toomer  suggested,  by  whitewashing  the  front  walls.  Miss 
Burnham  had  gone  up  to  town  and  seen  Heatherleigh  about 
the  panelling  of  the  pillars,  and  had  arranged  with  him  to  have 
them  filled  with  appropriate  sujects.  Heatherleigh,  in  his  new- 
born zeal  for  work,  had  gladly  accepted  the  commission,  and 
also  undertook  to  secure  my  co-operation.  The  reader  may 
remember  that  I  had  professed  myself  willing  to  do  what  I 
coulcl  in  that  way,  on  certain  terms.  I  received  a  brief  note 
from  Miss  Burnham,  saying  she  hoped  I  would  accompany 
Mr.  Heatherleigh,  and  do  part  of  the  work,  on  any  terms  I 
chose  to  name.  The  latter  words  were  underlined ;  and  I  went 
down  into  Buckinghamshire  rejoicing. 

"  What  a  fine  country  it  is  about  here  ! "  said  Heatherleigh, 
as  we  descended  the  hill,  after  leaving  Toomer  pottering  among 


THE  WHITE  DOVES.  137 

his  turnips,  and  got  into  the  valley  that  lies  underneath 
Burn  ham.  "  It  was  a  good  notion  to  take  that  haunted  house, 
as  we  ought  to  have  an  occasional  holiday  for  sketching.  But 
v,  hat  on  earth  did  you  want  with  a  gun  ?" 

"  Lest  some  tramps  should  hear  of  our  being  there,  and 
prowl  about  the  place  to  steal.  I  don't  suppose  there  is  a 
lock  or  bolt  or  bar  in  the  house  ;  but  when  they  know  we  have 
a  gun  in  the  room,  they  will  be  chary  of  coming  near." 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  meant  to  have  a  shot  at  the  evil 
spirits." 

"You  never  see  them  ;  you  only  hear  them.  You  will  hear 
the  sound  of  wheels  being  driven  up  to  the  house  in  the  middle 
of  the  night ;  and  if  you  open  the  door  suddenly  you  will  hear 
bursts  of  laughter  all  around,  mocking  you  for  your  trouble. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  sound  of  a  horseman  galloping  past  that 
you  hear,  though  where  the  horseman  gallops  to  is  a  mystery, 
as  the  place  is  surrounded  by  trees.  Sometimes  the  peo- 
ple have  seen  a  black  dog  dashing  past,  without  making 
any  noise.  Sometimes  it  is  a  woman  singing  a  song,  appa- 
rently hushing  a  baby  to  sleep ;  and  sometimes  it  is  the  deep 
voice  of  men,  cursing  at  each  other.  But  whenever  you  at- 
tempt to  surprise  them  there  is  instant  silence,  and  then  the 
strange  laughter  all  around  in  the  air." 

"  Comfortable,  exceedingly." 

"  Even  the  tramps  who  go  about  are  afraid  to  use  the  empty 
rooms,  into  which  they  could  easily  get.  But  here  we  are  at 
Burn  ham  ;  and  what  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  view  ?  " 

-  We  were  in  front  of  the  broad  and  stately  avenue  that  led 
up  between  giant  rows  of  Spanish  chestnuts  to  the  front  of 
Burnham  House.  As  we  ascended  the  avenue  the  mullioned 
windows  of  the  gray  old  building  became  plainer,  the  spire 
of  the  small  church  was  visible  through  the  trees,  and  behind 
us  lay  a  long  prospect  down  the  valley  and  up  over  the  hills, 
which  lay  steeped  in  the  soft,  warm  glow  of  autumn  sun- 
light. There  was  an  autumn  haze,  too,  lying  over  the  olive- 
green  of  the  distant  woods,  and  round  about  the  great  trunks 
of  the  trees  near  at  hand — a  soft,  thin,  gray  veil  that  caused 
the  yellow  stubble-fields,  the  red  fallow,  the  far-off  brown- 
green  beech-woods,  and  the  gray-and-white  chalk  hills  to 
become  faint  and  visionary  in  the  heat,  rendering  their  vari- 
ous hues  pale  and  ethereal,  andjying,  as  it  were,  a  gossamer- 
net  of  frail  apd  fairy-like  texture  over  the  still,  beautiful 
landscape.  The  glory  of  Buckinghamshire  is  its  beech-woods, 
that  assume,  later  in  autumn,  an  indescribable  intensity  of 
color;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  thev  should  be  seen  with  this 


1 33  KILMENY. 

silvery  harvest  haze  hanging  over  them,  through  which  the 
distant  hills,  covered  with  these  forests  of  beeches,  actually 
shimmer  in  pale  rose-color  and  gold. 

We  went  up  to  Burnham  ;  and  the  lady  of  Burnham — how 
slight  and  small  she  looked  in  front  of  the  big  house  ! — was 
standing  on  the  steps,  and  came  forward  to  meet  us. 

"  How  wrong  of  you,"  she  said  to  Heatherleigh,  with  a  bright 
smile,  "  not  to  let  me  know  when  you  were  coming,  and  I 
should  have  sent  over  for  you." 

With  that  she  came  over  and  shook  hands  with  me,  saying 
simply, 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come." 

Heatherleigh  explained  to  her  that  we  had  stopped  at 
Wycombe  on  the  previous  evening  in  order  to  enjoy  the  walk 
over  on  that  morning  ;  and  that  our  traps  would  be  sent  over 
from  that  ancient  town  some  time  during  the  day. 

"  Your  rooms  have  been  prepared  for  you ;  and  Madame 
Laboureau  has  done  you  the  honor  of  gathering  some 
flowers  for  you  with  her  own  hand.  Her  husband  was  an 
artist." 

Madame  Laboureau — an  elderly  small  French  lady  who 
had  accompanied  Miss  Burnham  on  her  return  from  France, 
and  been  her  official  companion  ever  since — now  came  for- 
ward, and  begged  to  know,  with  many  expressions  of  dramatic 
sympathy,  how  my  mother  bore  her  loss,  and  how  she  was 
reconciling  herself  to  London. 

"  But,  with  your  permission,"  said  Heatherleigh  to  Miss 
Burnham,  "we  mean  to  stay  at  some  empty  house  near  here, 
which  we  understand  is  occasionally  favored  by  ghostly 
visitors.  Pray  don't  look  alarmed — we  shall  be  very  com- 
fortable, a  worthy  farmer  having  promised  to  give  us  all  the 
furniture  we  need,  and  we  have  already  engaged  a  house- 
keeper." 

"  You  mean  the  Major's  house  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  too  absurd.  You  will  die  of  cold  and  hunger 
down  there.  Madame  Laboureau  and  I  have  done  every- 
thing we  could  think  of  to  make  you  comfortable — " 

"  You  are  very  kind,  indeed — " 

"  And  I  have  asked  down  several  of  your  friends  to  lighten 
the  dullness  of  your  stay — the  Lewisons,  Mr.  Morell,  Miss 
Lesley—" 

"  Really  your  kindness,  Miss  Burnham,  will  make  us  play 
the  traitor  to  our  own  compact,  I  fear.  But  in  the  mean  time 
you  will  allow  us  to  follow  out  our  whim  for  at  least  a  few 


TIII-:  //'/// 7Y-;  /WA.S-  139 

nights.  I  am  really  anxious  to  say  that  I  have  slept  in  a 
haunted  house  ;  and  then,  if  we  s/wuld  see  something — " 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  " 

"  Look  at  the  honor  and  glory  of  being  allowed  to  publish 
a  report  of  it.  We  should  get  Morell  to  write  an  article 
about  it ;  and  we  should  .be  positive  heroes  for  a  couple  of 
months." 

"It  is  an  heroic  undertaking,"  she  said.  "You  will  have 
to  brave  a  good  deal,  even  if  you  see  no  ghosts.  But  at  least 
you  will  follow  my  advice  so  far  as  to  dine  with  us  this  even- 
ing; and  I  will  meanwhile  send  over  some  people  to  see  that 
the  place  is  made  more  comfortable  than  you  are  likely  to 
find  it.  Mr.  Ives,  you  are  at  the  bottom  of  this — will  you 
urge  your  friend  to  accept  the  compromise  ?  " 

"  We  accept  with  pleasure,"  I  said,  "and  Madame  Labou- 
reau  will  be  a  witness  that  our  appointment  with  the  spirits 
is  only  postponed  until  night." 

The  bright,  quick  little  Frenchwoman  shook  her  head 
gravely,  and  there  was  a  solemn  look  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"  It  is  not  right  you  laugh.  They  say,  '  II  n'y  a  que  les 
morts  qui  ne  reviennent  pas.'  Hm !  They  do  not  know. 
If  you  live  in  my  country — la  Bretagne,  Monsieur — you  get 
to  hear  of  these  things.  We  know  of  these  stories — we 
used  to  gather  them — and  we  used  to  speak  them  to  each 
other  in  the  long  evenings — c'est  un  passe-temps  com  me  un 
autre ! " 

She  addressed  these  latter  words  to  Miss  Burnham  (to 
whom  she  always  spoke  in  French),  and  shrugged  her  small 
shoulders  as  if  to  let  us  understand  that  she  did  not  believe 
all  such  legends. 

"  But  you  yourself,  Madame,"  said  I,  "  have  you  ever  seen 
any  ghosts  ? " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  simply.  "  They  are  not  so  many  now, 
since  the  Revolution.  Once  we  used  to  have  plenty  of  stories 
about  them.  But  the  Revolution  has  altered  all  that." 

"  Come,  Madame,"  said  Miss  Burnham ;  "  perhaps  the 
gentlemen  will  go  inside  and  rest  themselves  after  their 
walk." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  whether  the  panels  have  been  prop- 
erly prepared,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  I  think  I  can  assure  you  of  that.  Madame  is  also  an 
artist,  and  she  has  superintended  the  work." 

"  Oui,  ma  chere,"  said  Madame  to  Miss  Burnham,  as  they 
entered  the  house  ;  "  je  consacre  mes  loisirs  a  la  peinture ; 
et  tu — a  la  bienfaisance." 


140  KILMENY. 

They  went  with  us  into  the  drawing-room,  and  there  we 
held  a  consultation  over  the  adornment  of  the  pillars.  I  was 
not  aware  that  Miss  Burnham  knew  so  much  about  artistic 
matters,  nor  that  she  took  so  much  interest  in  them  as  was 
evidenced  by  her  bright  and  intelligent  talk  with  Heather- 
leigh.  At  length  our  plan  of  operations  was  decided  upon, 
and  then  the  two  ladies  left  us.  I  had  accidentally  learned 
that  Colonel  Burnham,  and  a  niece  of  his,  by  his  wife's  side, 
were  slaying  in  the  house. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  our  traps  arrived  from 
Wycombe.  Almost  at  the  same  time  the  party  from  London 
made  their  appearance,  and  there  was  just  time  for  all  of  us 
to  dress  for  dinner.  Going  down  to  a  sort  of  reception-room 
— the  drawing-room  being  shut  up  for  the  present — I  asked 
Heatherleigh  if  he  thought  we  should  be  accommodated  with 
a  side-table. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  I  believe  comic  singers,  at 
some  great  houses,  come  in  with  dessert,  having  dined  in 
another  room.  But  then  we  are  not  able  to  amuse  the  com- 
pany, even  in  that  way.  However,  if  we  have  to  sit  behind 
the  screen,  Morell  shall  come  with  us.  Being  an  author,  it 
is  his  place." 

This  Mr.  Morell  was  a  gentleman  who  moved  in  very  good 
circles,  and  was  much  thought  of  as  a  wit.  There  was  a 
vagueness  about  his  sources  of  income.  He  had  chambers 
in  the  Albany,  rode  a  good  horse  in  the  Park,  belonged 
to  a  first-class  club,  and  was  known  to  contribute  smart 
articles  on  fashionable  subjects  (particularly  the  demi-monde) 
to  one  or  two  newspapers.  He  was  a  magnificent  diner-out ; 
the  end  of  the  season  found  him  as  fresh  as  a  lark,  with  his 
stock  of  stories  (for  dinner  after-dinner)  not  half  exhausted. 
His  acquaintance  with  titled  persons  was  enormous.  He 
got  his  cigars  through  a  duke  ;  and  never  made  a  purchase  in 
wine  without  consulting  a  marquis.  He  was  a  middle-aged, 
stout,  bright-looking  man,  with  a  resemblance,  in  the  contour 
of  his  face,  to  Tom  Moore  ;  he  sang  and  played  exquisitely ; 
he  conversed  and  paid  compliments,  sat  a  horse,  and  handled 
a  breech-loader  all  with  the  same  consummate  ease  ;  and  he 
borrowed  money  from  every  one  of  his  acquaintances  with 
the  most  charming  air  in  the  world. 

When  we  went  down-stairs,  we  found  him  alone  in  the 
room,  seated  at  the  piano,  and  rattling  off  some  light  and 
rapid  selections  from  "  Dinorali." 

He  immediately  stopped  and  sprang  from  the  stool. 

"My  dear  fellow,  how  do  you  do — how  do  you  do?     And 


77/7;    M'JUTK  DOVES.  141 

you,  Mr.  Ivcs — a  little  bird  has  whispered  to  me  something 
about  a  certain  picture.  Ah,  well !  perhaps  it  is  a  secret — no 
harm  done — and  so  you  have  come  to  help  us  to  scatter 
destruction  among  the  Burnham  pheasants?  I  say"  (here 
his  voice  dropped  to  a  confidential  undertone),  "is  it  any 
good  down  here  ?  You  know  a  woman  lets  her  preserves 
run  to  the  devil — somebody  might  make  a  joke  out  of  that, 
but  no  matter — and  doesn't  care  if  she  gets  enough  out  of 
them  for  her  own  table,  and  to  send  to  her  friends." 

"  I  don't  know  how  the  Burnham  woods  are,"  said  Heath- 
erleigh  ;  "  Ives  can  tell  you  something  about  them,  but  he 
and  I  have  come  down  on  business  merely." 

"  The  deuce  you  have  !  " 

"  And  we  are  going  to  tear  ourselves  away  from  your 
society  every  evening,  in  order  to  sleep  in  a  haunted  house." 

"A  haunted  house  !  Oh!  damme!  I  must  join  your  party. 
I  never  did  such  a  thing  in  my  life — should  like  above  all 
things  to  coquet  with  a  spirit,  and  draw  pentegrams  on  the 
floor,  you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Heatherleigh  ;  "  too  many  would  spoil  the 
game,  and  frighten  them  off.  If  we  can  inveigle  them  into  a 
performance,  depend  upon  it  you  shall  have  the  full  benefit 
of  it,  and  be  able  to  thrill  London  with  a  description." 

"Ah!  I'm  in  bad  odor,  just  now  with  my  literary  friends. 
I  was  imprudent  enough  to  write  an  article  on  the  morality  of 
paying  one's  debts,  and — would  you  believe  it  ? — every  editor 
I  sent  it  to  took  it  for  a  personal  insult !  Upon  my  soul,  there 
wasn't  an  editor  in  London  who  would  print  it. — Oh !  Miss 
Lesley,"  he  instantly  added,  as  Bonnie  Lesley  came  into  the 
room,  radiant  in  white  silk,  that  glimmered  through  gauzy 
folds,  with  a  bunch  of  blue  forget-me-nots  in  her  yellow  hair, 
"  do  you  know  what  awaits  you  down  here  ?  These  gentle- 
men have  discovered  a  haunted  house,  and  mean  to  engage 
the  spirits  to  appear  for  your  amusement.  There  is  some- 
thing so  much  finer  in  getting  ghosts  that  are  private  property 
—kept  on  the  premises,  as  it  were — than  in  paying  a  guinea 
a-head  to  have  your  grandmother's  name  misspelled  on  a 
piece  of  paper." 

I  had  not  seen  her  since  we  were  together  at  Brighton,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  she  had  brought  away  something  of  the 
sea  with  her,  in  the  blue  of  her  eyes. 

The  other  people  now  appeared  in  ones  and  twos,  among 
them  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham,  who  had  not  made  his  appearance 
before.  Dinner  was  announced,  and  an  orderly  procession 
of  couples  passed  along  the  corridor  and  into  the  dining- 


142  KILMENY. 

\ 

room,  which  was  brilliantly  lit.  It  was  my  good  fortune  to 
find  myself  seated  by  the  side  of  Madame  Laboureau.  Col- 
onel Burnham  had  taken  in  his  niece,  but  Heatherleigh,  sit- 
ting next  her,  turned  from  his  own  partner,  and  talked,  in  his 
quiet,  half-humorous  fashion,  to  Miss  Burnham  during  the 
whole  time.  Mr.  Morell  had  brought  in  Bonnie  Lesley,  and 
was  already  on  the  best  of  terms  with  her,  telling  her  funny 
anecdotes  about  all  sorts  of  celebrities  in  town,  describing  to 
her  the  absurdities  of  the  new  play,  ridiculing  the  newest 
fashions.  She  appeared  to  be  very  much  delighted.  She 
paid  him  the  most  devoted  attention,  although  she  received 
with  the  same  amount  of  amused  interest  his  good  stories 
and  his  dull  ones,  his  quips  and  his  relapses  into  sober 
earnest. 

"  You  are  a  great  friend  of  that  young  lady,"  said  Madame 
Laboureau,  with  a  smile.  She  had  been  watching  the  direc- 
tion my  eyes  had  taken. 

"  Yes,  she  has  been  good  enough  to  take  me  in  hand." 
"  Ah  !  you  must  not  speak  in  that  tone.     You  think  she 
flirts  ?     No.     It  is  only  her  good-nature,  that  makes  her  to 
amuse  people.     Or  perhaps — eh  ? — she  wants  to  make  you 
jealous  ? " 

"  It  would  be  too  great  a  compliment,  Madame  Laboureau." 
"  Ah,  well  !  "  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  sigh.  "  There  are 
ladies — there  are  gentlemen — who  you  cannot  understand. 
They  do  not  wish  to  annoy  others,  they  do  not  wish  to  be  in- 
constant, or  to  receive  all  friends  with  the  like  favor,  but  they 
cannot  help  it.  It  is  their  nature.  It  is  dangerous  to  fall  in 
love  with  them,  for  they  never  fall  quite  in  love  ;  if  they  do, 
they  forget  next  day,  when  a  new  friend  comes.  They  do 
not  try  to  act  wrong ;  they  only  cannot  help  liking  novelty, 
liking  the  excitation  of  new  falling  in  love.  Perhaps  they 
like  better  the  falling  in  love  rather  than  the  being  in  love. 
Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  right,"  I  said  ;  and,  indeed,  I  have 
often  thought  of  Madame's  shrewd  phrase,  "  they  like  the  fall- 
ing in  love  better  than  the  being  in  love"  as  explaining  a  good 
many  of  the  odd  pranks  and  love  miseries  which  happen  in 
one's  circle  of  friends. 
But  I  added — 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  talking  of  Miss  Lesley  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.     I  speak  of  a  particular  kind  of 

nature.     You  may  meet  it,  perhaps  not.     And  I  know  many 

ladies  are  blamed  for  coquetting,  when  they  cannot  help  it. 

They   cannot   help  being   pleased  with   new    attentions.     I 


THE  \\-IIlTE  DOl'ES.  143 

should  explain  so  much  better  if  I  spoke  in  French,  but  I  do 
not  like  to  speak  French  except  to  Miss  Hester." 

"  Won't  you  extend  the  same  favor  to  me  ?  You  will  speak 
to  me  in  French,  and  I  shall  answer  you  in  English.  Is  not 
that  the  best  arrangement  for  giving  both  freedom  ?  " 

And  this  she  did.  She  chatted  away  with  great  volubility, 
and  no  one  could  have  failed  to  be  delighted  with  her  pert 
sayings  and  her  touches  of  literary  adornment,  and  the  little 
personal  coquetries  of  her  manner.  Yet  I  listened  to  it  all 
as  if  it  were  a  dream,  and  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  answers 
I  made  to  her.  What  I  did  hear,  clear  and  sharp,  was  the 
conversation  between  Bonnie  Lesley  and  her  companion.  Do 
what  I  would,  I  could  not  help  hearing  it,  and,  although  I 
persistently  kept  my  eyes  away,  I  fancied  I  could  see  her  face, 
and  the  smile  on  it,  and  the  amused  wonder  of  her  big  eyes. 

"  I  am  the  happiest  man  upon  earth,"  he  said  to  her. 
"  Every  pleasure  I  enjoy  I  look  upon  as  a  bit  of  luck.  Fancy 
how  happy  a  criminal  who  has  been  condemned  to  death,  and 
been  reprieved,  must  feel  all  his  life  after.  Every  glass  of 
beer  he  drinks  is  a  pleasure  he  had  forfeited.  So  it  is  in  my 
case — " 

"  Oh,  have  you  been  reprieved  ?  "  said  Miss  Lesley. 

"  Well,  it  is  about  the  same  thing.  My  mother-in-law  lived 
two  years  in  my  house,  and  I  didn't  murder  her." 

I  fancy  this  elaborate  witticism  had  done  duty  on  many  an 
occasion.  At  all  events,  it  rather  failed  in  this  instance  ;  as 
Miss  Lesley  merely  said,  "  Oh,  indeed !  "  with  a  half-puzzled 
look  on  her  face. 

Sometimes,  too,  I  heard  Hester  Burnham's  voice  through 
the  various  hum  of  talk.  Occasionally  I  caught  sight  of  her 
face  and  her  eyes;  and  it  seemed  as  if  Kilmeny  were  sitting 
there,  pure  and  calm  and  beautiful,  scarcely  comprehending 
the  Babel  of  sounds  around  her. 

To  tell  the  truth — and  are  not  these  a  series  of  very  unro- 
mantic  confessions  ? — I  was  very  savage  during  that  dinner 
— with  what  I  hardly  knew.  Irritated,  discontented,  impa- 
tient, I  waited  for  the  close  of  it;  and  I  was  heartily  glad 
when  the  ladies  rose. 

"Que  nous  aliens  nous  ennuyer,  enfant!"  said  Madame 
Laboureau,  with  a  little  laugh,  to  Hester  Burnham,  as  they 
passed  from  the  room. 

Mr.  Morell  shut  the  door,  and  returned  to  the  table. 

"  What  a  charming  old  lady  that  Madame — " 

"  Laboreau." 

'•  Madame   Laboreau  is.     You  never  see   Englishwomen 


M4  KILMENY. 

preserve  that  sprightliness  of  manner  in  their  old  age.     They 
get  apathetic  and  corpulent  and  commonplace — " 

"  Englishwomen  grow  fat  on  the  //'s  they  swallow,"  said 
Heatherleigh. 

"  And  if  there  ever  was  a  county  of  /^-droppers,  Bucks  is 
that  county,"  said  Morell.  "  The  feats  of  jugglery  the  people 
about  here  perform  with  their  fi's  are  astounding.  Now  what 
do  you  say,  Colonel  Burnham,  to  our  changing  our  coats  and 
going  outside  for  a  cigar?  I  fancy  there  are  no  deep 
drinkers  among  us." 

"  Or  into  the  billiard-room  ?  "  said  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham. 
"There  are  pool-balls,  if  you're  not  particular  about  the  cues." 

No  one  seemed  to  care  about  this  disinterested  proposal 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Burnham. 

"  Or  what  do  you  say,"  suggested  Heatherleigh,  "  to  our 
going  into  the  drawing-room,  and  postponing  our  smoking 
until  the  ladies  have  gone  up-stairs  ?  In  any  case,  Ives  and 
I  are  going  off  presently." 

This  latter  course  was  agreed  upon  ;  and  after  a  little  time 
we  went  into  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Lewison  was  singing ; 
the  other  ladies  were  crowded  into  a  corner,  on  sofas  and 
chairs  and  cushions,  listening  to  some  ghost-story  that  Mad- 
ame Laboreau  was  telling  them.  It  seems  the  conversation 
had  turned  upon  the  Major's  house,  and  Madame,  who  had 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  speak  in  French,  had  trotted  out 
many  of  her  Breton  reminiscences.  When  we  entered  the 
room,  she  was  saying  that  a  much  more  extraordinary  oc- 
currence than  that  she  had  just  related  had  happened  to  her- 
self. We  prayed  her  to  tell  the  story. 

"Will  the  gentlemen  also  permit  me  to  speak  my  own 
tongue — I  have  too  much  constraint  in  English  ?  " 

She  crossed  her  thin,  small,  brown  hands  on  her  knees,  and 
began  the  story. 

"  II  y  a  de  cela  bien  longtemps.  J'etais  jeune  encore,  et 
soit  dit  en  passant  tres-jolie" — with  which  she  looked  archly 
at  Bonnie  Lesley,  and  smiled.  "  Nous  habitions  a  cette 
epoque  le  norddela  Bretagne,  et  j'avais  alors  une  demi-sceur 
dangereusement  malade — tellement  malade  que  nous  craig- 
nions  a  tout  moment  de  la  perdre.  Pour  ma  part  j'avais 
passe  deux  jours  et  deux  nuits  aupres  d'elle,  lorsque,  oppres- 
sed par  1'air  malsain  de  la  chambre,  je  profitai  d'un  instant 
ou  ma  demi-sceur  sommeillait.  Je  me  rendis  au  jardin.  Le 
temps  etait  magnifique.  Un  superbe  clair  de  lune  argentait 
les  objets,  une  brise  legere  agitait  les  arbres,  et  un  rossignol 
cache'  dans  un  bosquet  faisait  entendre  ses  jolis  accents. 


THE   1177/77-:  DOl'J-.S.  145 

Mais  jc  parle  trop  vitc — me  comprenez-vousbien,  messieurs  ct 
nu'sdames  ?  " 

The  little  gesture  with  which  she  accompanied  the  ques- 
tion \vas  admirable.  She  was  acting  the  raconteuse.  The 
measured  gravity  of  her  voice,  the  formal  introduction  of  the 
moonlight  and  the  nightingale,  the  apologetic  look  with 
which  she  urged  the  question,  were  all  parts  of  an  excellent 
and  delicately  finished  performance. 

44  Je  me  promenais,"  she  continued,  "  respirant  le  doux  par- 
fum  des  roses.  Voil&  que  soudain  je  vois  apparaitre  une 
nue'e  de  colombes,  blanches  comme  neige.  Elles  voltigent 
silencieuses,  et  me  saisissent  d'effroi.  Tout  d'un  coup  elles 
s'abattent  sur  la  fenet  re,  et  s'envolent  de  nouveau — " 

She  lifted  her  hands,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy,  as  if 
she  saw  there  the  white  doves  wheeling  around  the  window 
of  her  foster-sister's  room. 

"  — Les  rideaux  de  la  chambre  s'agitent.  La  fenetre 
s'ouvre,  et  se  referme.  Un  long  et  profond  soupir  se  fait  en- 
tendre, et  tout  disparait.  Epouvantee,  eperdue,  me  trainant 
avec  peine,  je  rentre,  et  tremblante  je  me  dirige  vers  la 
chambre  de  la  malade.  .  .  .  Ma  soeur  dtait  morte  !  " 

The  old  lady's  face  was  quite  pale ;  and  she  had  so  vividly 
impressed  on  her  hearers  the  reality  of  the  details  of  the 
story — the  flying  of  the  white  doves  around  the  invalid's 
window — their  silent  disappearance — her  hurried  and  tremb- 
ling rush  to  the  sick-room — and  the  discovery  of  her  sister's 
death — that  for  a  second  or  two  after  she  had  finished  no  one 
spoke. 

"Voila,  certes,  une  bien  curieuse  histoire,  madame,"  said  I 
at  last,  "  mais  la  fatigue  agissant  sur  votre  imagination  ex- 
plique  peutetre  1'etrange  hallucination  dont  vous  e'tiez  1'ob- 
jet.'1 

"  Was  it,  then,  an  hallucination,  monsieur  ? "  she  said, 
looking  up,  with  reproof  in  her  eyes. 

The  silence  now  being  broken,  it  was  curious  to  notice  the 
different  ways  in  which  the  listeners  had  received  the  story, 

"  What  a  singular  thing  !  "  said  Miss  Lesley,  with  a  smile, 
and  a  look  of  wonder  on  her  face.  "It  would  make  a 
pretty  picture,  would  it  not  ?  " 

"  Sie  kann  auch  gut  auf  schneiden"  said  Morell,  in  an  under- 
tone, to  Heatherleigh — a  remark  which  I  did  not  understand, 
my  acquaintance  with  Continental  slang  being  very  limited 
then. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Heatherleigh,  "  she  is  a  magnificent 
actress." 


146  KILMENY. 

11  Capital !  "  said  Alfred  Burnham,  when  the  narrative  was 
ended.  From  that,  and  the  accompanying  laugh,  I  concluded 
that  he  had  not  understood  the  story,  and  had  fancied  it  was 
probably  a  joke. 

Hester  Burnham  said  nothing ;  but,  long  after  the  others 
had  ceased  talking  of  it,  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  very  wist- 
ful and  strange  in  their  expression,  and  that  she  sat  rather 
apart  and  silent. 

We  remained  perhaps  about  half  an  hour  in  the  drawing- 
room.  During  that  time  Miss  Lesley  did  the  most  she  could 
to  make  her  extreme  condescension  to  Mr.  Morell  visible  to 
the  rest  of  the  guests.  She  played  an  accompaniment  for  a 
song  which  he  sang  very  well  indeed.  Then  he  and  she  sang 
a  duet  together.  She  even  devoted  a  few  minutes  to  Heath- 
erleigh,  and  was  very  gracious  to  him. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  coming  over  to  him,  "you  must  settle  all 
our  doubts  about  Madame  Laboureau's  story.  Is  it,  or  is  it 
not,  too  improbable  to  be  true  ?  " 

"  You  should  never  doubt  the  truth  of  a  good,  wild,  absurd 
story.  Miss  Lesley,"  said  he.  "  We  want  all  the  improbable, 
miraculous,  supernatural  material  we  can  get,  if  only  to  vary 
the  commonplaces  of  life.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  I  think  the 
human  race  should  enter  into  a  compact  to  believe  that  all 
wild  stories  (except  those  of  the  Levant  Herald)  are  true. 
However,  won't  you  sing  for  me,  before  I  go,  my  favorite 
song — you  know  ? " 

"  Oh,  I1  m  tired  of  [it,"  she  said,  turning  away  with  an  air 
of  petulance,  and  not  so  much  as  giving  a  word  to  me,  who 
sat  by  Heatherleigh,  and  had  not  spoken  to  her  since  the  dis- 
persal of  the  Brghton  circle. 

"  Is  that  a  lesson  for  you  ?  "  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  That  she  should  not  speak  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  She  has  a  right  to  please  herself  in  her  choice  of  com- 
panions, surely  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  to  throw  them  off  when  she  has  done  with  them. 
But  I  confess  she  puzzles  me  in  your  case.  She  does  not 
seem  angry  with  you,  and  she  ought  to  be,  if  my  notion  of 
the  matter  is  right." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  said,  "but  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever  that  your  notion  is  entirely  wrong.  For  you, 
who  see  the  best  side  of  every  one's  nature,  are  invariably 
unjust  to  her,  and  to  her  alone." 


Till-:  IIAl'XTKD  HOUSE.  147 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

WE  were  a  sufficiently  gay  party  as  we  left  Burnham  that 
night  in  quest  of  ghosts.  Morell  had  insisted  on  at  least 
walking  over  with  us,  in  order  to  have  a  cigar  by  the  way. 

"  But  how  are  you  to  find  your  road  back  ?  "  said  Heather- 
leigh,  as  we  issued  into  the  cool  night-air. 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  he  replied,  carelessly. 

He  was  evidently  bent  on  sharing  the  adventure. 

"  You  are  not  ashamed  to  leave  your  charming  partner," 
said  Heatherleigh. 

"  Miss  Lesley  ?  "  he  said.  "  Oh,  a  charming  girl.  But,  I 
say,  you  know,  if  one  were  to  see  her  at  a  distance — if  one 
had  not  spoken  to  her — I  think  it  would  occur  to  one  to  ask 
whether  she  were  cocoite  or  cocodette.  No  offence — I  only 
mean  her  general  appearance,  such  as  a  stranger  might  see 
it.  Problem  for  a  young  man — whether  a  cocotte  or  a  cocedette 
will  ruin  him  the  faster. 

Here  he  began  to  sing  an  abominable  parody  of  Heine's 
"  Du  hast  Diamanten  und  Perlen ;  "  little  snatches  of  which 
were  continually  crossing  the  rather  wild  and  desultory  cur- 
rent of  our  talk  during  the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

It  was  a  lovely  night,  the  moonlight  throwing  long  shadows 
from  the  Burnham  chestnuts  and  oaks  upon  the  broad  avenue 
leading  down  to  the  valley.  Far  up  on  the  hills  the  woods 
lay  dusky  and  silent ;  while  here  and  there  a  chalky  field 
gleamed  white  among  the  darker  patches  of  turnip  or  potato 
that  covered  the  long,  rounded  slopes.  I  was  glad  to  get 
away  from  the  big  house  that  lay  behind  us — high  up  there, 
among  the  dark  trees,  with  a  red  glimmer  in  its  lower  win- 
dows, and  the  moonlight  falling  on  its  pale  front.  I  was 
more  and  more  getting  to  believe  that  there  was  something 
wrong  in  my  manner  of  life — that  I  ought  not  to  go  among 
these  people,  who  led  me  into  wild  dreams  and  bitter  disap- 
pointments. I  was  glad  to  be  outside — in  the  free  air — and 
with  only  men  for  my  companions.  Luckily  more  jovial 
companions  could  not  have  been  found.  We  startled  the 
calm  solitudes  of  Burnham  with  some  rather  imperfectly  exe- 
cuted madrigals ;  nor  did  Morell  cease  his  gay,  rapid  talk 
until  we  had  passed  up  the  long  narrow  path  through  the 
shrubbery  and  stood  before  the  Major's  house. 

"  It  is  a  ghostly  looking  place,"  said  he,  looking  at  the 


148  KILMEXY. 

low,  flat  house,  with  its  projecting  bay-windows,  its  curious 
veranda,  and  the  crumbling  white  walls  which  gleamed  in  the 
light  of  the  moon. 

"  By  Jove,  1  have  forgotten  the  key !  "  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  But  there  is  no  necessity  for  a  key  in  getting  into  the 
Major's  house,"  said  I,  throwing  up  one  of  the  windows,  and 
jumping  into  the  room. 

I  was  astounded  by  what  I  saw  there.  Instead  of  a  bare, 
empty  chamber,  with  bits  of  plaster  about  the  floor,  and  cob- 
webs obscuring  the  window-panes,  I  found  that  the  place 
had  been  carefully  swept  out — there  were  a  table,  some  chairs, 
a  sofa,  a  lamp,  and  a  couple  of  candles,  etc.,  etc.,  making  the 
place  quite  habitable.  When  I  had  struck  a  match,  I  found 
a  note  addressed  to  me  lying  on  the  table.  It  ran  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  Dear  Sir, — The  things  as  Miss  Burnham  have  sent  over 
are  in  the  cubbard  in  the  all,  the  key  over  the  door.  My 
compliments,  and  hope  you  will  send  for  anything  you  want 
and  be  very  welcome. 

"SARAH  TOOMER." 

We  went  to  the  "  cubbard  in  the  all,"  and  there  a  wonder- 
ful display  met  us  of  bottles,  glasses,  knives  and  forks,  a 
cruet-stand,  plates,  a  cold  pie,  a  ham,  some  bread,  etc. 

"  What  a  thoughtful  little  woman  it  is !  "  cried  Heather- 
leigh. "  Why,  I  declare,  here  is  a  box  of  cigars  !  " 

"  And  this  is  positively  Mumm — and  here  is  some  seltzer  !  " 
exclaimed  Morell.  "  Does  your  gentle  friend  smoke,  also, 
that  she  knows  the  only  champagne  that  should  accompany 
a  cigar  ?  Such  kindness  overpowers  me.  It  would  be  the 
depth  of  ingratitude  not  to  pay  our  respects  to  these  good 
things  :  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

So  we  formed  a  triumphal  procession  back  to  the  sitting- 
room,  carrying  with  us,  like  the  figures  in  an  Egyptian  bass- 
relief,  all  manner  of  glasses,  bottles,  and  what  not,  including 
the  cigars. 

"Now  this  is  what  I  enjoy  in  the  country,"  said  Morell. 
That  old  colonel,  I  swear,  has  gone  to  bed  to  dream  of  shoot- 
ing partridges,  and  he  will  get  up  somewhere  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  and  start  without  breakfast,  and  bother  the 
birds  so  that  one  sha'n't  have  a  shot  all  the  day  after." 

"  It  is  a  curious  thing,"  said  I,  "  but  you  never  do  any  good 
partridge-shooting  if  you  go  out  too  early." 

"  It  is  a  blunder,"   said  Morell,  "  which  I   never  commit. 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE.  149 

I'm  for  having  my  sport  comfortably.  I  am  not  a  slave  to 
shooting,  and  I  positively  loathe  and  abhor  tin:  weariness  of 
lishinir.  Motto  for  an  angler's  club:  *  The  fishing  for  the  day 
is  the  cril  thereof'  Do  you  fish,  Heatherleigh  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Heatherleigh,  who  was  cutting  the  wire  of  one 
of  the  bottles. 

By  this  time  the  candles  and  lamp  were  lit,  and  we  sat 
down  to  our  cigars.  But  the  light  of  the  candles  was  not 
strong  enough  wholly  to  overcome  the  light  of  the  moon, 
which  came  in  through  the  large  open  bay-window,  and 
painted  squares  of  pale  white  on  the  wooden  floor. 

"  Is  that  a  gun  in  the  corner  ? "  asked  Morell. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  you  get  that  for  ?  " 

"  Merely  to  keep  about  the  house  so  that  tramps  mayn't 
be  tempted  to  break  in  upon  us  during  the  night,  there  being 
but  few  bars  about  the  place.  But  I  see  Toomer  has  stupidly 
loaded  it  and  capped  it." 

"  You  didn't  get  it  to  shoot  at  the  ghosts  ?  " 

"  You  may  have  a  shot  if  you  like  when  they  come." 

"  Here's  to  their  coming  !  "  he  cried,  lifting  a  glass  of  seeth- 
ing wine.  "  And  here's  to  the  good  little  lady,  with  the  pretty 
eyes,  who  sent  us  this  feast ;  and  here's  to  the  partridges  of 
the  neighborhood,  and  to  the  Colonel,  and  to  Miss  Lesley — 

'  Du  hast  meine  Uhr  und  Kette, 
Ruinirt  mein  Porte-monnaie — ' 

By  the  way,  has  Colonel  Burnham  any  money  ?  " 

"  Precious  little,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  His  son  ?  " 

"  Not  a  rap." 

"  Oh,  then  he'll  the  more  easily  get  into  heaven — that  must 
be  his  consolation.  It  must  be  a  comfort  to  many  people  not 
to  be  rich." 

"  I  fancy  young  Burnham  would  rather  take  the  riches  and 
chance  the  rest,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  You  know  if  rich  men 
can't  get  into  heaven,  they  can  get  into  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  most  of  them  don't  seem  disgusted  with  the  com- 
promise." 

"  Burnham  would  rather  go  on  the  turf  than  enter  either," 
said  I,  "  if  you  only  give  him  the  funds." 

Morell  nodded  his  head  sagaciously. 

"  A  little  cousinly  feeling,  eh  ?  That's  why  he  hangs  about 
the  place ;  but  surely  the  girl  won't  have  him  ? " 


150  KILMENY. 

"Why  ?  "  said  I ;  "he  is  handsome,  and  well-manneiecl  to- 
wards women,  has  as  much  brains  as  most  idle  men  of  his 
class,  and — " 

"  And  therefore  she  ought  to  marry  him ! "  said  Morell, 
gayly.  "  Ah,  well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  When  my  poor 
wife  was  alive,  she  used  to  try  to  get  me  to  believe  that 
women  had  some  sort  of  romance  in  them,  but  now —  I  sup- 
pose they  are  what  we  have  made  them ;  and  that  the  whole 
lot  of  us  are  a  set  of  selfish,  mean,  interested  wretches. 
Here's  to  the  better  disposition  of  the  next  age  ! — 

'  Und  hast  mich  in  den  Rinnstein  geworfen, 
Mem  Liebchen,  ich  sage  ade  ! '  " 

"  Don't  sing  that  song  while  you  are  talking  of  anybody 
over  at  Burnham,"  I  besought  of  him. 

"  My  dear  sir,  there  was  no  reference  whatever  to  anybody 
at  Burnham  or  elsewhere.  I  am  just  in  such  a  mood  at  pres- 
ent that  I  could  go  on  chatting  or  singing  for  hours,  without 
the  faintest  notion  of  coherency,  which  is  always  an  offensive 
necessity.  I  feel  myself  free  from  all  trammels.  I  don't 
need  to  be  logical  or  grammatical.  I  get  glimpes  of  fine  fan- 
cies and  suggestions — from  myself  and  those  around  me,  and 
I  have  not  to  stop  to  weigh  their  business-value.  It  is  only 
the  next  day  that  the  fine,  clear,  crystalline  thought  thaws 
and  resolves  itself  into  a  newspaper  article — " 

"  Where  you  disguise  yourself  in  phrases,"  said  Heather- 
leigh,  "  and  hide  yourself,  like  a  cuttle-fish,  in  a  cloud  of  ink." 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Morell,  his  voice  increasing  in  volume, 
"  that  with  a  good  cigar  in  my  lips,  and  some  cool  wine  near 
me,  I  imagine  poems  that  would  startle  some  of  you,  if  I  could 
only  jot  them  down.  I  have  not  the  trick  of  rhyme — that  is 
the  difference  between  me  and  some  whom  I  am  delighted  to 
honor.  I  sometimes  fancy  myself  writing  a  poem — 

Ah,  sweetest,  how  chill  is  the  morning  air ! 

Is  it  your  last  kiss  that  is  on  my  lips  ? 

How  pale  you  are  and  you  tremble,  but  your  small  fingers  are  warm, 

And  your  eyes  are  full  of  love. 

The  morning  mist  is  full  of  the  yellow  sunlight,  cold  and  chill, 

But  there  are  dreams  in  your  eyes,  and  stories  of  all  that  is  over — " 

He  recited  these  lines  as  if  he  were  really  in  a  state  of  be- 
wildered exaltation  ;  then  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  fell  to 
singing  his  abominable  "  Du  hast  meine  Uhr  und  Kette." 

Presently,  however,  he  had  returned  to  his  normal  condi- 
tion of  indifference  ;  and  Heatherleigh  and  he  were  discuss- 


THE  HACXTJ-J)  nor.sr:.  151 

ing  the  origin  of  conscience,  Morell's  crude  notions  on  the 
subject  being  just  the  sort  of  incentive  that  was  needed  to 
provoke  Heatherieigh  into  entering  upon  those  humorous, 
thoughtful  monologues  which  were  to  me  a  constant  source 
of  delight.  But  that  I  might  tire  my  reader,  I  should  clearly 
like  to  insert  here  what  I  could  recollect  of  some  one  of 
these  inimitable  discourses,  which  were  the  very  reflex  of 
Heatherieigh 's  nature. 

However,  I  went  outside  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and  also 
to  reflect  on  one  or  two  events  of  the  evening.  Was  I  angry 
or  jealous  that  Miss  Lesley  had  so  openly  disavowed  our  for- 
mer intimacy  ?  Surely  I  had  no  right  to  be  either.  In  de- 
scending from  her  high  estate  to  confer  the  favor  of  her 
speech  and  friendship  upon  me,  she  had  probably  obeyed  a 
thoughtless  whim,  which  was  now  forgotten.  If  I  had  ever 
been  tempted  to  dream  foolish  dreams  of  the  future  through 
this  intimacy,  it  was  not  her  fault — it  was  the  fault  of  my  in- 
experience of  the  manners  of  good  society.  I  had  taken  as 
meaning  something  what  really  meant  nothing.  Yet  I  could 
not  help  regarding  her  with  a  certain  cold  distrust ;  and  I 
was  very  loth  to  think  of  going  over  to  Burnham  next  morn- 
ing, to  undergo  the  humiliation  of  her  too  ostentatious  neg- 
lect. I  wished  that  I  had  not  undertaken  to  assist  Heather- 
ieigh. I  was  again  being  thrown  among  those  people  with 
whom  I  had  no  real  sympathy.  It  was  not  by  mixing  with 
them  that  I  was  to  work  out  my  redemption  from  the  thral- 
dom of  Weavle  ;  and  I  began  to  long  for  my  small  room 
overlooking  Regent's  Park — for  the  close,  hard  work,  and 
the  joyous  feeling,  and  the  bright  hopes  attending  thereon. 

How  lovely  the  night  was !  It  seemed  too  beautiful  for 
the  country.  That  pure,  calm  moonlight  should  have  fallen 
on  a  green,  breaking  sea,  and  a  long,  curved  bay,  with  dis- 
tant rocks  jutting  out  here  and  there  into  the  water.  It  was 
a  night  on  which  fairies  might  have  been  seen  hovering  over 
the  sand — on  which,  listening  intently,  you  might  have  heard 
the  mermaiden  singing  sadly  for  her  lover  of  Colonsay. 
Even  as  it  was — a  soft  moonlit  night  in  harvest,  down  in  the 
leafy  heart  of  Bucks — it  was  very  beautiful,  and  perhaps  a 
trifle  sad,  in  that  it  suggested  the  sea. 

I  had  wandered  some  little  distance  from  the  house, 
through  the  shrubbery,  thinking  of  far  other  things  than 
ghosts.  It  was  the  ghosts  of  half-suggested  pictures  that 
crowded  before  my  eyes,  and  the  ghosts  of  half-forgotten 
snatches  of  old  madrigals  that  hummed  about  my  ears.  As 
I  passed  on  I  came  to  the  side  of  the  road,  from  which  I  was 


152  KILMENY. 

separated  by  a  tall  hawthorn  hedge.  Through  this  dark 
mass  of  stems  and  leaves  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  see 
two  or  three  figures  passing  along,  making,  so  far  as  I  could 
hear,  not  the  least  sound.  I  stood  and  watched. 

Through  the  shrubbery  I  saw  that  they  had  left  the  road, 
and  were  proceeding  up  the  path,  under  a  dark  avenue  of 
lime-trees,  towards  the  house.  I  could  not  make  out  the 
number  of  the  black  shadows,  but  there  was  one  figure 
clothed  entirely  in  white.  They  passed  along  quite  noise- 
lessly ;  and  as  noiselessly  I  followed.  Suddenly  I  heard  a 
strange  laugh — low,  and  yet  strange  and  unearthly.  At  the 
same  moment  the  white  figure — the  figure  of  a  woman — 
glided  rapidly  across  the  lawn  and  was  lost  in  the  trees  op- 
posite. I  drew  nearer.  The  laugh  was  heard  again  from 
among  the  trees  ;  and  again  the  white  figure  darted  across 
the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house,  retreating  behind  some  tall 
larches  that  stood  at  the  end  of  the  shrubbery.  While,  how- 
ever, the  figure  was  invisible  to  those  inside  the  house  (sup- 
posing that  they  had  been  attracted  to  the  window  by  the 
noise),  it  was  fully  visible  to  me ;  and,  as  I  drew  yet  nearer, 
it  seemed  that  the  outline  of  the  head  and  shoulders,  shown 
clear  in  the  moonlight,  was  quite  familiar.  In  a  moment  the 
truth  flashed  upon  me.  This  was  Bonnie  Lesley,  who  had 
dressed  herself  up  as  a  ghost  for  the  purpose  of  frightening 
us,  and  who  had  persuaded  some  of  her  friends  to  accom- 
pany her.  They,  I  now  saw,  were  secreted  behind  various 
bushes,  evidently  waiting  for  the  entertainment.  I  crept  up 
along  the  side  of  the  shrubbery,  fancying  it  would  be  a  fair 
retort  to  frighten  them ;  and  then  I  saw  that  Hester  Burn- 
ham  stood  alone,  and  nearest  of  all  to  the  window,  behind 
two  large  laurels  which  were  not  overburdened  with  leaves. 
The  moonlight  being  at  her  back,  she  was  not  probably  not 
considering  that,  from  the  shadow  of  the  room,  if  either 
Heatherleigh  or  Morell  came  to  the  window,  she  would  be 
more  seen  than  seeing.  Indeed,  I  felt  sure  that  the  dark 
outline  of  her  figure  must  be  clearly  visible  behind  the 
sparsely  covered  branches,  and  that  she  would  assuredly  re- 
veal the  trick. 

Again  the  white  figure  laughed.  I  now  recognized  Bonnie 
Lesley's  voice,  as  she  ran  across  the  lawn. 

There  was  no  one  as  yet  at  the  window.  The  two  men 
inside  were  apparently  so  deep  in  metaphysics  that  they  had 
heard  nothing. 

Should  I  utter  a  wild  shriek  and  startle  the  ghost-makers 


SOME  KE I  'EL  A  TIOXS.  1 53 

themselves?     I  was  not  half-a-dozen  yards  from  Miss  Burn- 
hain's  place  of  concealment. 

1  saw  that  Bonnie  Lesley  and  a  gentleman  whom  I  took  to 
be  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham  were  at  the  other  side  of  the  lawn, 
gathering  together  small  stones  from  the  gravelled  walk  ; 
and  in  a  few  seconds  Bonnie  Lesley  threw  a  handful  of  them 
at  the  window.  But  the  window  was  open,  and  so  the  gravel 
rattled  in  upon  the  wooden  floor.  With  that  she  noiselessly 
glided  across  the  lawn  and  into  the  bushes. 

"  Did  you  see  that  ?"  I  heard  Morell  exclaim,  apparently 
in  consternation.     "  It  was  a  woman.     Where  is  Ives  ?  " 
""Gone  up-stairs  to  bed,  I  suppose,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

Heatherleigh  went  around  the  passage  and  appeared  at 
the  door ;  Morell  was  still  standing  at  the  window.  Then  I 
saw  the  latter  disappear  for  a  second  and  the  next  moment  I 
saw  in  the  moon-light  the  pale  gleam  of  the  gun-barrel.  It 
was  pointed  at  the  bush  behind  which  stood  Hester  Burnham. 
I  was  paralyzed.  I  tried  to  cry,  and  could  not.  I  staggered 
forward,  caught  her  arm,  and  drove  her  from  the  place  where 
she  stood.  At  the  same  moment  I  received  a  terrible  blow, 
and  sank  to  the  earth,  with  a  frightful  noise  in  my  ears,  and 
a  sensation  as  if  the  sea  were  breaking  over  me. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

SOME   REVELATIONS. 

I  AWAKE  in  a  strange  room,  in  a  dusky  light  that  scarce 
reveals  the  objects  around  me.  Surely  some  one  came  close 
to  the  bedside  and  bent  over  me  for  a  moment,  and  touched 
my  forehead  with  her  lips,  and  then  glided  out  of  the  room. 
But  I  can  see  nothing  and  hear  nothing  for  the  din  that  is  in 
my  ears — resembling  the  rustling  of  innumerable  leaves — and 
the  mist  that  is  before  my  eyes.  I  feel  tired,  also,  and  weak 
and  drowsy. 

The  doctor  comes  into  the  room.  I  have  not  seen  him 
since  my  father  and  uncle  were  buried  on  the  same  morning. 
I  connect  his  face  with  all  that  terrible  time,  and  wonder 
whether  I,  too,  am  dying.  It  seems  as  if  it  would  be  an  easy 
thing  to  die — just  the  sinking  into  a  quiet  sleep,  with  plenty 
of  sweet,  deep  rest. 

The  doctor  appears  a  little  surprised,  takes  my  hand,  and 
says  he  is  glad  I  am  so  much  better. 


1 54  KILMENY. 

11  Where  am  I  ? :' 

"  Why,  in  the  Major's  cottage.  In  a  day  or  two  we  shall 
have  you  removed  to  Burnham." 

"  But — but  what  is  the  matter  ?  Has  anybody  been  sent  to 
tell  Mr.  Weavle  that  I  couldn't  come — " 

"  Mr.  Weavle  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 

Then  I  begin  to  recollect  myself.  I  must  have  been 
dreaming  about  Weavle.  I  am  no  longer  a  slave  to  Weavle 
or  to  anybody.  I  can  go  where  I  like — do  what  I  like.  But 
•why  this  bed  and  the  doctor  ?  I  further  recollect ;  and  then 
I  beg  the  doctor  to  tell  me  all  that  occurred  that  night  when 
I  saw  the  gun  pointed  at  Hester  Burnham. 

"  But  first  tell  me  who  went  out  of  the  room  just  now  be- 
fore you  came  in  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  one.  You  have  been  so  soundly  asleep  for 
some  time  that  your  mother  went  down-stairs  for  a  little  while 
to  get  something  to  eat." 

"  There  was  no  one  else  up  here  ?  " 

"No.  I  dare  say  you  were  a  little  confused  when  you 
awoke,  you  know,  and  may.  have  fancied  you  saw  some  one." 

"  Ah,  I  dare  say." 

And  yet  I  thought  that  some  one  came  and  touched  my 
forehead  with  her  lips ;  and,  in  my  utter  prostration  and 
nervous  weakness,  I  wished  that  she  would  come  and  kiss  me 
once  more,  that  I  might  fall  asleep  and  die. 

"  How  long  have  I  been  ill  ? " 

"  Only  a  few  days.  You  have  been  a  little  feverish,  you 
know ;  but  the  ball  has  been  extracted — " 

"A  ball,  was  it?" 

"  Yes.  That  idiot  Toomer  put  a  ball  and  a  sixpence  into 
the  barrel ;  and  that  bigger  idiot  of  a  friend  of  yours  must 
needs  go  and  fire  it.  Lucky  for  you  that  it  caught  your  watch 
first,  or  you  wouldn't  have  been  speaking  now." 

"  I  hear  wheels — who  is  that  ?  " 

"Miss  Burnham  going  home,  I  think.  She  has  been  here 
the  best  part  of  the  day  with  your  mother.  I  suppose  you 
know  you  saved  that  young  lady's  life  by  very  nearly  losing 
your  own  ? " 

"  Doctor,  I  wish  I  was  able  to  laugh.  Miss  Burnham  once 
gave  me  half  a  crown  in  charity,  and  for  many  a  year  I  have 
been  trying  to  get  some  way  of  paying  it  to  her  back  again. 
Have  I  paid  it  back  now  ?  " 

"You  shouldn't  talk  in  that  way  of  her,"  said  the  doctor, 
gravely  and  kindly  ;  "  she  is  all  gratitude  towards  you.  In- 
deed, I  told  her  she  was  doing  her  best  to  kill  herself  in  re- 


SOMJ-:  A'A  /  'XL A  7  YCV.'.S.  155 

turn — siuin'  up  when  there  was  no  need  for  it,  and  cryin' 
when  there  was  no  need  for  it,  and  generally  conducting  her- 
self like  a  precious  young  fool.  But  she  has  been  of  great 
assistance  to  your  mother.  She  has  sat  up  when  there  was 
need  for  it — sat  on  this  very  chair  half  the  night  through, and, 
in  spite  of  her  wilfulness,  showin'  an  amount  of  wise  common- 
sense  and  helpfulness  that  fairly  astonished  me,  though  I 
knew  her  pretty  well.  So  you  mustn't  say  hard  things  of 
her — " 

"  Did  I  ?" 

"  Well,  you  spoke  bitterly,  you  know — and — and  when  you 
were  a  little  feverish,  you  know,  you  said  some  things  of  her 
then  that  made  her  cry  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  These 
are  tales  out  of  school,  you  know,  and  if  I  tell  them  to  you,  it 
is  that  you  mayn't  think  she  is  at  all  ungrateful  to  you  for 
what  you've  done  and  suffered  for  her.  She  has  been  here 
pretty  well  night  and  day ;  and  the  whole  lot  of  'em  have  been 
just  about  as  anxious,  and  a  pretty  to-do  I've  had  to  keep 
them  from  botherin'  up  here.  But  there's  only  your  mother 
and  herself  have  the  sense  for  a  sick-room,  that's  the  fact. 
Now,  have  I  told  you  everything?  Is  your  mind  perfectly  at 
rest  ?  For  it's  only  rest  that  is  required  now  to  bring  you 
round,  and  you  must  have  a  good  dose  of  it.  No  exciting 
interviews  with  young  ladies,  you  know ;  no  attempts  to 
soothe  Mr.  Morell's  protestations  of  remorse — nothing  but 
quiet  and  rest.  Get  well ;  and  tackle  them  afterwards." 

All  this,  said  in  his  low,  quiet,  kind  voice,  was  so  gentle  and 
soothing,  that  in  a  few  moments  thereafter  I  again  fell  asleep. 

Next  morning  I  found  that  the  doctor  had  absolutely  for- 
bidden every  one,  except  my  mother,  to  see  me  for  several 
days.  I  thought  this  a  very  hard  provision,  but  had  to  admit 
the  prudence  of  it.  However,  I  received  all  manner  of  mes- 
sages from  every  one  around,  and  sent  them  back  replies. 
Indeed,  I  lay  and  imagined  the  various  interviews  I  should 
have  with  each  of  them  ;  and  promised  to  myself  the  satisfac- 
tion of  again  making  friends  with  Bonnie  Lesley. 

As  it  happened,  she  was  the  first  who  was  permitted  to  see 
me.  At  the  end  of  these  few  days  it  was  proposed  that  I 
should  be  removed  to  Burnham  House ;  but  this  I  objected 
to  so  strenuously  that  the  project  dropped.  There  was  no  ur- 
gent reason  for  such  a  removal.  Thanks  to  the  kindness  of 
Mrs.  Toomer  and  Miss  Burnham,  the  cottage  we  had  taken 
possession  of  was  furnished  with  every  convenience.  My 
mother  slept  in  the  room  which  had  been  intended  for  Heather- 
leigh  ;  and  a  bed  had  also  been  fitted  up  for  the  maid-servant 


156  KILMENY. 

from  Burnham  House  who  attended  her.  Heatherleigh  had 
taken  up  his  quarters  at  Burnham  House  ;  and  was,  at  my  re- 
quest, going  on  with  the  whole  of  the  panellings.  The  acci- 
dent which  had  happened  was  a  sad  damper  upon  both  his 
work  and  the  sports  of  the  other  guests ;  but  so  soon  as  it  be- 
came definitely  certain  that  my  recovery  was  only  a  question 
of  time,  a  more  cheerful  tone  got  abroad,  and  things  went  on 
as  usual  in  the  quiet  valley. 

"  Ted,"  said  my  mother,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  have  a  visitor  for 
you." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  most  beautiful  lady  in  the  world." 

"Is  it  Miss  Lesley?" 

"  It  is  a  young  princess  out  of  a  story-book,  dressed  all  i:i 
white  and  blue  and  silver,  and  she  wears  a  white  feather 
above  her  long  yellow  hair.  Shall  I  bid  her  come  in  ?  " 

My  mother's  description  was  correct.  When  Bonnie  Les- 
ley came  into  the  room,  she  did  look  like  a  princess  out  of 
a  story-book.  And  she  came  over  and  took  my  hand,  and 
was  for  accusing  herself  of  all  that  had  happened,  when  I 
stopped  her. 

"It  was  a  mischance,"  I  said,  "  for  which  nobody  is  respon- 
sible. It  was  my  carelessness  that  was  chiefly  to  blame,  in 
leaving  the  gun  about  after  I  saw  it  was  loaded." 

"  But  there  is  more  than  that  for  which  I  must  ask  your 
forgiveness — " 

Here  she  glanced  towards  my  mother.  I  suppose  women 
understand  these  mute  appeals  better  than  men :  in  a  minute 
or  two  she  made  some  excuse  for  leaving  the  room  and  went 
clown-stairs. 

"  I  have  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for  my  conduct  over  at 
Burnham  that  evening — you  know  what  I  mean.  When  I  ran 
forward  and  saw  you  lying  on  the  ground,  I  fancied  you 
were  dead,  and  the  thought  that  I  should  never  have  the 
chance  of  explaining — of  begging  you  to  pardon  me — " 

"  That  is  all  over.     Don't  say  anything  more  about  it." 

"  But  I  must.  You  don't  know  what  it  meant ;  and  yet, 
when  I  saw  you  lying  on  the  ground,  I  resolved  that  if  ever 
I  had  the  chance  I  would  confess  everything — " 

She  seemed  very  much  distressed.  The  whole  affair  was 
a  mystery  to  me  ;  yet  I  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  see 
things  in  a  kind  of  mental  fog  that  I  was  not  surprised.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  she  was  not  there?  Perhaps  this  beautiful 
vision  was  in  reality  a  vision  ?  But  again  she  began  speak- 
ing— in  a  rapid,  confused,  painful  way. 


SOME  KE I  'ELA  TIONS.  1 57 

"  I  must  tell  you  everything  now — then  you  can  judge 
whether  we  shall  ever  meet  on  the  old  terms.  Long  ago  Mr. 
Heatherleigh  said  something  of  me  that  hurt  me  much.  I 
needn't  tell  you  what  led  him  to  say  it ;  but  he  said — not  to 
me,  of  course,  but  to  a  friend  of  mine — that  I  was  incapable 
of  sincere  affection,  that  I  was  by  nature  frivolous  and  light, 
and  unable  to  feel  deeply ;  that  any  man  of  a  strong  and 
sensitive  nature  would  turn  from  me  as  soon  as  he  *  found 
me  out,'  and  a  great  deal  like  that.  I  cannot  explain  it  ex- 
actly ;  but  you  know  what  he  meant." 

I  nodded ;  wondering,  at  the  sa^ie  time,  what  had  led 
to  this  strange  conduct  on  the  part  of  Heatherleigh,  and 
wondering  whether  I  should  ever  get  to  the  bottom  of  the 
mystery. 

"  I  was  deeply  mortified,  and  very  angry.  Just  then  you 
became  acquainted  with  Mr.  Heatherleigh.  He  took  a  great 
liking  to  you,  and  kept  praising  you  to  everybody — I  suppose 
because  you  were  in  many  things  very  like  himself.  It  was 
then — oh  !  how  can  I  ever  tell  you  ! " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  After  a  few  minutes' 
silence  she  continued,  evidently  forcing  herself  to  speak. 

"  I  thought  it  would  show  him  how  much  he  was  mistaken 
if  you  and  I  were  to  become  great  friends  ;  and  I — I  even 
determined  to  revenge  myself  upon  him  by — by  flirting  with 
you.  .  .  .  You  will  despise  me  ;  I  deserve  it ;  I  despise  myself; 
and  I  don't  know  how  I  am  able  to  tell  you  all  this,  but  that  I 
made  a  vow  that  night  to  confess  everything  to  you,  and  beg 
your  pardon.  Well,  we  did  become  great  friends,  did  we 
not  ? " 

I  nodded  again. 

"  And  I — I  confess  that  I  was  many  a  time  sorry  that  it 
was  not  in  earnest,  and  many  a  time  ashamed  that  I  was  de- 
ceiving you.  Sometimes  I  thought  I  was  not  deceiving  you, 
and  that  I  meant  it  all ;  and,  then  again,  it  seemed  so  shame- 
ful, for  you  were  always  so  honest  with  me,  and  kind.  Very 
well  :  you  didn't  fall  in  love  with  me,  did  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  smile  and  a  blush  on  her  face  as  she  spoke  ; 
but  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  I  was  very  near,"  I  said,  rather  sadly. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  old  world  was  all  fading  away  now, 
with  the  dreams  that  were  its  chief  inhabitants.  I  could  see 
it  as  a  thing  apart,  cut  off  from  me,  and  slowly  receding.  I 
think  every  man  experiences  at  times  flashes  and  spasms  of 
consciousness,  that  suddenly  reveal  to  him  his  position  and 
his  relation  with  the  circumstances  around  him.  These 


1 58  KILMENY* 

glimpses  of  self-revelation  show  him  how  he  has  altered  in  a 
few  years — how  he  has  grown,  without  being  aware  of  it  al- 
most, so  much  more  healthful,  or  rich,  or  poor,  or  famous,  or 
sad.  As  this  girl  sat  and  spoke  to  me,  the  old  panorama 
was  unrolled,  and  I  saw  all  the  stages  of  our  acquaintance- 
ship as  so  many  pictures.  I  was  regarding  myself  in  the 
light  of  her  revelations. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  You  didn't  fall  in  love  with  me,  and  I  was  vexed.  On 
that  evening  at  Burnham,  I  thought  I  should  at  least  provoke 
you  into  being  jealous ;  and  so  I  flirted  with  Mr.  Morell,  so 
that  you  must  have  noticed  it.  I  must  have  been  mad.  I 
can  scarcely  believe  myself  when  I  look  back  over  all  these 
things,  and  see  how  shamefully  and  cruelly  I  behaved.  I 
was  terrified  beyond  measure  at  the  result  of  my  proposal  to 
play  at  ghosts.  I  thought  it  was  a  judgment — " 

"It  must  have  been  a  judgment,"  said  Heatherleigh, 
afterwards,  when  I  told  him  of  this  conversation,  ''''for  it  fell 
on  the  wrong  person" 

"  When  1  went  back  to  Burnham — none  of  us  got  home  till 
the  gray  of  the  morning — I  lay  awake  for  hours,  thinking 
what  I  could  do  to  atone  for  all  my  folly  and  cruelty ;  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  that,  on  the  very  first  opportunity,  I  would 
confess  everything  to  you.  I  have  done  it — I  have  debased 
myself  in  your  eyes — I  have  humiliated  myself — " 

'Suddenly,  and  to  my  great  surprise,  she  buried  her  face  in 
the  end  of  the  pillow  next  her,  and  burst  into  tears.  I  was 
amazed  beyond  belief;  as  I  had  never  seen  Bonnie  Lesley 
give  way  to  any  violent  emotion  whatever.  Indeed  I  had 
really  begun  to  doubt  her  possession  of  any  great  sensitive- 
ness ;  and  then  to  think  that  one  so  beautiful  and  graceful 
should  have  been  moved  in  this  way  on  my  account !  Yet  I 
looked  on  the  exhibition,  I  confess,  as  a  sort  of  phenomenon. 
She  had  herself  shattered  that  old  world  of  foolish  hopes, 
and  severed  the  frail  cord  that  bound  us,  so  widely  separated 
from  each  other,  together,  and  now  it  was  with  more 
curiosity  than  sympathy  that  I  saw  her  so  strangely  affected. 
I  can  recall  that,  through  the  languor  produced  by  my 
weakness,  I  lazily  contemplated  the  pictorial  effect  of  her 
attitude — the  bowed  head,  the  covered  face,  and  masses  of 
yellow  hair. 

At  this  moment  my  mother  re-entered  the  room.  The 
beautiful  penitent  hastily  raised  her  head  and  endeavored  to 
conceal  her  tears. 


'  KKl'KI.A  I'lOXS.  159 

'•Will  you  take  a  biscuit  and  a  little  wine,  Miss  Lesley, 
before  you  go  ?  "  said  my  mother. 

Tliis  was  merely  an  invitation  to  leave. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  she  said. 

She  rose,  and,  as  she  bade  me  good-bye,  she  stooped  down 
and  said — 

'•  Will  you  forgive  me  everything?" 

"  Everything." 

"  And  we  shall  be  better  friends  than  before,  I  think  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

With  that  she  left ;  and  I  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in 
dreaming  over  the  strange  story  she  had  told  me,  and  in 
recalling  all  the  old  scenes  and  circumstances.  Certainly, 
many  a  peculiar  feature  in  our  past  relations  became  clear. 

emembered,  especially,  the  manner  in  which,  on  the  top 

Lewes  Castle,  she  had  questioned  me  about  my  possess- 
g  the  same  tastes  and  disposition  as  Heatherleigh,  and  also 
ie  strange  fashion  in  which  she  endeavored  to  arrive  at  my 
..npression  of  her  character.  I  certainly  had  not  imagined 
her  to  possess  so  much  self-consciousness  as  she  had  exhib- 
ited, and  sensitiveness  to  criticism.  She  was  evidently  proud, 
and  capable  of  some  persistence  in  her  notion  of  revenging 
herself. 

But  the  wound  that  had  prompted  her  to  attempt  this 
revenge  was  still  a  mystery.  What  reason  had  Heatherleigh 
to  depart  from  his  usual  courtesy  of  bearing  to  make  an 
attack  upon  a  girl  who  was,  if  not  a  friend  of  his,  a  friend 
of  his  friend  ?  Ordinarily,  Heatherleigh  was  most  generous 
in  his  interpretation  of  people's  conduct ;  given  to  seeing 
the  best  side  of  their  nature  ;  slow  to  express  an  unfavorable 
opinion ;  and  invariably  considerate  and  respectful,  even 
chivalric,  towards  women.  Why  had  he  gone  out  of  his  way 
to  sneer  at  a  girl  for  lack  of  those  qualities  which  no  effort  on 
her  part  could  have  acquired — that  is  to  say,  presuming  that 
his  strictures  were  true,  which  I  wholly  declined  to  believe  ? 
Young  as  I  was,  I  had  even  then  observed  that  there  is  no 
more  common  charge  brought  against  a  woman  than  that  of 
emptiness  of  heart  and  fickleness  of  disposition,  and  the 
charge  is  generally  prefered  by  a  rejected  suitor. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Morell  came  up.  I  had  to  stop  his 
protestations  of  regret  also. 

'•Look  here,"  I  said,  "do  you  regard  as  a  joke  the  getting 
a  ball  through  your  ieft  arm  and  shoulder,  and  the  slitting  of 
your  ear  with  a  sixpence  ?  " 

"Certainly  not.'' 


loo  KILMEXY. 

"  Well,  it  is  fast  becoming  a  comedy.  Everybody  insists  on 
being  the  only  responsible  party;  and,  instead  of  righting  it 
out  among  yourselves,  you  come  and  appeal  to  me.  Sit 
clown,  and  tell  me  what  you  have  done  among  the  Burnham 
stubbles/' 

"  Oh,  but,  damme,  you  must  let  me  tell  you  how  awfully 
sorry  I  am — " 

"  I  won't." 

"  There  never  was  such  a  beastly  idiot — " 

"All  right." 

"  — without  knowing  what  was  in  the  gun,  to  think  of  only 
frightening  whoever  it  might  be — " 

"Very  well.  I'm  tired  of  hearing  about  it.  How  many 
brace  did  you  kill  next  day  ? " 

"Well  I'll  tell  you.  None  of  us  shot  next  day.  We 
mooned  about  the  place  as  if  it  were  Sunday.  Next  day  the 
same,  until  Alfred  Burnham  proposed  billiards ;  and  the 
brute  won  twenty-five  pounds  from  me,  confound  him.  Then 
we  all  played  pool  :  Heatherleigh,  the  Colonel,  he,  and  I ; 
but  it  was  only  a  shilling  the  game  and  threepenny  lives,  and 
Burnham  did  not  play  so  well.  I  was  going  to  remark  that 
all  men  are  honest  where  their  interests  are  not  concerned  ; 
but  it  wouldn't  be  appropriate,  would  it  ?  You  can't  cheat 
much  at  billiards." 

"You  don't  suppose  Alfred  Burnham  would  cheat  ?  " 

"  I  never  suppose  anything  about  so  remarkably  dark  a 
horse.  To  continue.  Miss  Burnham  was  over  here  night 
and  day ;  the  other  ladies  had  buried  themselves,  and  we  only 
saw  them  in  the  evening,  at  dinner.  On  the  third  day  the 
ball  was  extracted  from  your  shoulder,  and  the  doctors  told 
us  you  would  get  on  all  right.  Then  we  resolved  to  go  out 
shooting." 

"  Did  Heatherleigh  go  with  you  ? '' 

"  No,  he  has  been  working  hard  at  those  pictures.  When 
I  went  to  open  my  gun-case,  I  almost  felt  sick  as  I  saw  the 
two  long  barrels.  I  declare  to  you,  I  trembled  when  I  took 
the  gun  in  my  hand  ;  and  when  we  began  walking  down  those 
turnips  beyond  Burnham  Common,  I  felt  certain  I  should 
kill  somebody  through  my  nervousness.  W7e  had  scarcely  got 
inside  the  gate  when  up  got  a  hare — what  the  devil  it  was  do- 
ing out  in  the  path,  I  don't  know — almost  at  my  feet.  I  put 
up  the  gun,  and,  damme,  I  couldn't  pull  the  trigger.  The 
Colonel  waited  for  a  second,  in  surprise  ;  and  then  up  went 
his  gun  and  over  rolled  the  hare.  The  wind  brought  a  puff 
of  the  smoke  my  way,  and  I  pretty  nearly  got  sick  again. 


SOME  REVELA'HOXS.  iCi 

You  know  what  it  is  to  smell  bad  tobacco  in  the  morning, 
when  you  have  been  making  a  night  of  it,  and  smoking  four 
times  as  many  cigars  as  were  good  for  you.  Well,  on  we 
went ;  I  wishing  that  I  had  the  moral  courage  to  fling  the  in- 
fernal breech-loader  over  a  hedge  and  walk  home.  Every 
time  I  shot,  I  expected  to  hear  a  cry  and  a  heavy  tumble  on 
the  ground.  I  declare  to  you  it  was  purgatory.  I  didn't 
know  what  I  kwas  doing.  I  fired  at  the  Colonel's  birds.  I 
let  a  whole  covey  of  partridges  go  past  within  fifteen  yards  of 
me,  untouched.  I  missed  a  hare  that  was  caught  in  the  hedge 
and  stuck  there  for  a  couple  of  seconds — " 

"  You  fired  straight  enough  when  you  fired  at  me." 

"Yes,  idiot  that  I  was.  Well,  we  went  into  old  Toomer's 
to  have  some  bread  and  cheese  and  beer.  Mrs.  Toomer 
kindly  presided  at  the  table.  I  was  so  thoroughly  upset  and 
dazed  that  I  considerably  astonished  that  stout  person. 

"  *  How  glad  you  must  be  to  get  into  the  country,  now  the 
worry  and  confusion  of  the  season  is  over,'  said  I. 

"  Probably  she  stared ;  but  I  did  not  notice. 

"  '  I  presume  you  were  a  great  deal'out,'  I  continued.  *  Do 
you  go  much  to  the  opera  ? ' 

"  You  know  Mrs.  Toomer  has  rather  a  rosy  face  ;  but  when 
I  turned  to  look  at  her  she  was  positively  scarlet  with  rage 
and  indignation.  She  thought  I  was  chaffing  her  about  her 
being  a  rustic.  I  declare  I  never  thought  who  she  was  ;  but, 
knowing  there  was  a  woman  near  whom  I  ought  to  talk  to,  I 
talked  the  ordinary  nonsense  you  would  talk  to  anybody.  I 
made  her  every  apology;  and  told  some  monstrous  lie  about 
having  believed  that  she  had  just  come  down  from  London. 
I  fancy  she  did  not  believe  me  ;  and  I  wonder  she  did  not 
complain  to  her  husband  about  my  impertinence." 

I  could  see  the  germ  in  this  brief  sketch  of  many  a  fine 
story  for  Morell's  friends :  and,  actually,  a  long  time  after, 
being  at  a  certain  club,  I  heard  a  man  say — 

"  Oh,  did  you  hear  that  devilish  good  story  young  Brooks 
told  here  last  night  ?  He  had  it  from  some  writing-fellow — 
about  a  swell  trying  to  get  into  conversation  with  a  farmer's 
wife,  and  talking  to  her  about  the  Row,  and  the  opera,  and 
the  new  style  of  bouquet-fans.  It  was  as  good  as  a  play: 
shouldn't  wonder  if  the  fellow  who  told  Brooks  put  it  in  a 
play." 

"  I  was  very  much  amused   by  old   Toomer,"  continued 
Morell ;  and  just  as  he  spoke,  who  should  appear  at  the  door 
but   Stephen   Toomer    himself,    accompanied   by    Heather- 
leigh. 
n 


1 62  KILMENY. 

"  How  be  ye,  Mahster  Ives,  how  be  ye  ?  I  be  rare  glad  to 
hear  you  are  getting  all  right  again  ;  and  as  we  couldn't  find 
the  missus  down-stairs — " 

"Of  course  you  came  up,"  said  Morell.  "  But  we  are  too 
many  for  a  sick-room,  so  I'm  off ;  besides  I  was  to  meet  the 
Colonel  and  his  party  at  eleven,  and  it  is  now  half-past." 

"  Where  are  you  going  shooting  to-day  ?  "     I  asked. 

"  I  was  to  meet  them  a  little  beyond  Hare  Wood." 

"  Then  you  are  coming  back  to  drive  the  wood  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"Very  well.  You  get  as  near  as  you  can  to  the  upper  side 
of  the  dell  that  lies  in  the  northeast  corner.  The  place  is 
full  of  hares,  and  they  all  make  for  that  corner,  to  get  over 
to  Coneybank  Wood.  Get  yourself  into  a  good  place,  and 
they  will  run  just  in  front  of  you,  either  up  the  lane  or  around 
the  hedge-side  of  the  dell." 

"  Come,  that  is  unfair,"  said  Heathcrleigh.  "  If  you  were 
to  give  those  wrinkles  to  me,  who  can  only  sit  on  a  bank  in 
the  twilight  and  pot  a  rabbit  when  it  comes  out  to  sit  on  its 
hind-legs,  and  wash  its  face  with  its  fore-paws — " 

"  And  that  bain't  easy,  ayther,"  said  Mr.  Toomer.  il  Lor, 
?ow  quick  they  be  in  catchin'  sight  o'  the  gun  !  You  come  up 
to  my  fahrm,  and  I'll  show  ye  a  dozen  rahbbits  a  runnin'  out 
and  in  o'  their  'oles,  and  I'll  bet  the  coot  off  my  back  that  ye 
sha'n't  'ave  one  o'  them.  What  do  you  say,  Mahster  Ives  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  you  get  into  a  sheep-trough,  with  a  sheaf  of 
corn  to  hide  your  head,  and  lie  there  for  half  an  hoUr." 

"  And  fall  asleep,  mayhap,  like  the  malm  as  stole  the  pig. 
D'ye  khow  that  story,  Mahster  Heatherleigh  ?  It  wur  one 
o'  my  grand-faather's." 

"  No,  let  us  hear  it,  Mr.  Toomer." 

"  This  malm  was  took  up  for  stealin'  the  pig,  and  it  wur 
found  on  him — leastways  in  the  bahg  he  had  over  his  bahck. 

*  Please  your  worship,'  says  he,  *  I  never  stole  that  'ere  pig.' 

*  'Ow  did  you  come  to  'ave  it  in  your  bahg  ? '  said  his  worship. 
4  Please  your  worship,  the  rale  truth  is  I  wur  very  tired,  and 
I  went  into  this  mahn's  pig-sty  with  my  bahg,  and  I  lay  down, 
as  it  might  be,  to  rest  myseP.     I  fell  asleep,  your  worship, 
and  I  suppose  when  I  wur  asleep  this  ere  dahmned  pig  got 
into  the  bahg.     I  never  knowed  it  wur  there  till  the  consta- 
ble he  found  it  wur  there.'  " 

Mr.  Toomer  recited  this  story  with  profound  solemnity,  as 
if  it  were  a  collect  he  had  been  asked  to  repeat.  He  looked 
remarkably  uncomfortable  while  telling  the  tale ;  and  the 
moment  it  was  finished  he  pretended  to  be  vastly  taken  with 


SO.}//-   A'/-  I  -KLA  TIOXS.  163 

a  picture  of  London — a  sheet  out  of  some  illustrated  paper 
—which  Heatherleigh  had  nailed  up  on  the  wall. 

*•  What  uncommon  sharp  folks  they  be  in  Lunnon,  to  be 
sure,"  Toomer  remarked,  meditatively.  "When  I  wur  thear 
live  yur  ago,  I  had  just  left  the  yard  where  the  bus  stopped, 
and  I  went  to  buy  a  pennorth  o'  happles  from  an  old  creetur 
as  was  sellin'  them  on  the  side  o'  the  street.  '  You're  a 
Buckinghamshire  mahn,  ain't  ye  ? '  says  she.  *  'O\v  did  you 
find  that  out,  missus  ? '  said  I.  *  Why,  doan't  I  know  every 
one  on  you  Buckinghamshire  folks  by  your  be'sV  says  she, 
with  a  grin.  But  I  don't  hold  by  Lunnon." 

"  No  ? '  said  Heatherleigh.     "  Why  that,  Mr.  Toomer  ? " 

"  I  doan't  know.  I  know  as  I  doan't  like  the  plaace.  I 
recklect  well  when  I  got  on  the  top  o'  the  coach  again,  and 
when  we  wur  a-coming  out  by  Notting-'ill,  and  when  I  began 
to  smell  the  fields  again  by  Hacton  and  Healing,  I  turns  to 
old  Joe — he  wur  the  driver  then,  and  wur  a  great  man  for 
thinkin'  hisself  a  real  Lunnoner — '  Talk  o'  your  furrin  parts, 
Joe,'  says  I,  'but  gie  me  Hold  England  ! ' ' 

"What  did  he  say,  Mr.  Toomer  ?  " 

"  He  wur  a  poor  creature,  was  Joe  Barton,  and  couldn't 
understand  what  I  meant.  He  said  as  Lunnon  was  in  Heng- 
land  too  ;  as  if  there  wur  a  man  alive  as  didn't  know  that 
Lunnon  was  in  England.  He  wur  a  sour-minded  mahn,  Joe 
Barton,  and  'ud  catch  you  up  literal-like.  Yet  he  wur  some- 
thin*  of  a  scholar,  wur  Joe  ;  and  they  tell  me  as  he  wur  able 
to  pint  out  the  way  to  a  French  gentleman  as  come  down 
into  these  parts." 

"Good-bye,  everybody,"  said  Morell.  "I'm  glad  you 
didn't  put  me  in  for  manslaughter,  Ives.  I  hope  you'll  soon 
be  well  again." 

And  we  heard  him  go  down  the  stairs  and  out  past  the 
front  of  the  house,  humming — 

"Du  hast  meine  Uhr  und  Kette, 
Ruinirt  mein  Porte-monnaie." 

Toomer  seemed  anxious  to  go,  too,  and  yet  appeared  not 
to  know  how  to  get  out.  He  began  to  study  London  again  ; 
then  he  suddenly  seemed  to  remember  that  his  hat  was  on 
the  table,  and  might  as  well  be  on  the  chair.  Finally  he 
burst  into  speech  in  a  tone  so  solemn  that  it  startled  both 
Heatherleigh  and  myself. 

"  I  allays  said  it,  and  say  it  now,  as  it's  fur  too  yellow.'* 

He  looked  hard  at  Heatherleigh. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Toomer — " 


1 64  KTLMENY. 

"  If  there's  one  thing  as  I've  said  to  my  missus  again  and 
again,  it's  thaht;  and  I  hold  to  it — as  the  front  is  too  yallow — " 

"  Oh,  the  front  of  Burnham  House  !  " 

"  Exahctly ! "  saicl  Mr.  Toomer,  with  a  broad  and  happy 
smile  on  his  blooming  face  ;  "  bain't  I  right,  Mahster  Heather- 
leigh  ? " 

"  Well,  yes,  I  fancy  it  would  do  to  be  a  shade  grayer." 

"  Ah,  look  at  that  now  !  "  said  Mr.  Toomer,  turning  to  me 
with  a  triumphant  laugh.  "  Look  at  that  now  !  Haven't  I 
allays  said  as  it  wur  too  yallow ;  and  when  I  say  a  thing,  I 
hold  to  it.  Lor  bless  ye,  women  cahn't  understand  them 
things.  There's  some  things,  as  I  say  to  my  missus,  outside 
of  a  woman's  comprehension  ;  and  we're  not  to  fight  agin  the 
Almighty,  and  break  down  the  barrier  as  he  plaaced  between 
them  and  hus.  What  I've  allays  said — and  I  hold  to  it — is  as 
woman  is  shallow." 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us ;  and  then  fixed  his 
eyes  for  a  few  seconds  on  the  picture  of  London. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Mahster  Heatherleigh  ?  "  he  continued, 
returning  suddenly  from  the  picture.  "  Bain't  I  right  ?  I 
say  nothin'  agin  women — as  fur  as  they  go.  They  be  very 
good — as  fur  as  they  go.  But  I  do  say,  Mahster  Heather- 
leigh, as  they're  shallow." 

The  eagerness  with  which  he  courted  assent  displayed  it- 
self all  over  his  fine,  broad,  bucolic  English  face. 

"  They  haven't  the  masculine  force  of  intellect,  have  they, 
Mr.  Toomer  ? "  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  Didn't  I  say  so  ! "  exclaimed  Toomer,  beaming  with  de- 
light, and  turning  to  me.  "  Didn't  I  say  as  they  wur  poor 
creeturs,  and  most  uncommon  shallow  !  Bless  ye,  a  woman 
has  as  little  steady  common-sense  in  her  as — as — as  a  stone 
steeple ! " 

I  suppose  Mr.  Toomer  borrowed  this  illustration  from  the 
picture  of  London,  on  which  his  eyes  were  again  fixed. 
However,  after  having  sat  a  little  time  in  profound  silence, 
he  thought  of  a  wonderful  joke  about  turnips,  fired  it  off,  and 
under  cover  of  the  smoke  made  his  exit. 

"Now,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "you  must  tell  me  what  you 
have  been  doing  to  Bonnie  Lesley  ?  " 

"  I  ?     Nothing." 

"  She  was  talking  of  you  last  evening  in  a  way  that  sur- 
prised me.  I  grew  to  fancy  that  you  had  conferred  a  soul 
upon  her — Undine  fashion.  I  confess  I  began  to  have  re- 
morse of  conscience  ;  for  I  have  had  throughout  a  very  ugly 
theory  of  her  relations  with  you — " 


SO  MX  AY:  /  'ELA  T/O.YS.  165 

"  And  your  theory  was  quite  correct,"  said  I.  "It  is  only 
now  that  I  can  understand  all  the  loose  hints  you  used  to 
throw  out — hints  that  made  me  remarkably  angry.  Indeed, 
Heatherleigh,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth — I  fancied  Miss  Lesley 
had  refused  you,  or  done  you  some  sort  of  injury,  and  that 
you  were  revenging  yourself  by  dropping  these  suggestions." 

"  That  was  turning  the  tables  !  "  cried  Heatherleigh,  with 
a  hearty  laugh.  "Why,  do  you  think  I'd  have  said  anything 
about  the  poor  girl  but  to  open  your  eyes  and  save  you  from 
a  possible  catastrophe  ?  I  don't  blame  people  for  their  nature. 
How  can  they  help  it  ?  What  is  it  Burns  says  of  *  Bonnie  Les- 
ley ? ' — *  Nature  made  her  what  she  is  ; '  and  as  she  is  not  re- 
sponsible; she  cannot  be  'blamed.  Only  I  ventured  to  take 
precautions,  that  you,  through  your  ignorance  of  what  she  is, 
might  not  suffer ;  and  in  return  you  thought  me  guilty  of  a 
mean  revenge,  whereas  the  truth  is — " 

Here  he  stopped  abruptly ;  I  looked  hard  at  him,  but  he 
turned  his  eyes  the  other  way. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  going  further  into  the  story  of  what  is 
over  and  gone  ;  but  how  did  you  come  to  know  that  my  theory 
was  correct  ? " 

"  Because  she  came  here  yesterday,  and  confessed  every- 
thing, and  seemed  heartily  sorry  and  ashamed  of  herself — " 

"  And  what  does  she  propose  to  do  by  way  of  atonement  ? " 
asked  Heatherleigh,  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

"  I  don't  see  that  she  has  anything  to  atone  for.  What 
harm  has  she  done  to  me  ? " 

"  Yet,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  he  said,  musingly,  "  if  in  her 
new  fit  of  penitence,  she  were  to  coax  you  to  fall  in  love  with 
her  in  earnest.  Now  don't  flare  up  in  that  hasty  fashion  of 
yours.  Look  at  the  thing  calmly.  I  say  nothing  against  the 
girl  whatever :  she  has  a  rare  notion  of  doing  what  is  right, 
only  she  does  it  self-consciously,  and  with  an  obvious  effort. 
She  forces  herself  to  be  magnanimous  in  spite  of  her  nature, 
which  is  narrow.  She  considers  what  is  good  and  generous 
and  noble — in  short,  what  she  ought  to  do  in  order  to  please 
other  people  and  raise  herself  in  their  estimation — then  she 
makes  an  effort  and  does  it.  This  effort  to  be  thought  well 
of  is  the  only  thing  which  seems  to  stir  her  at  all.  But  for 
that,  one  would  think  she  had  no  more  mind  or  judgment  or 
sensitiveness  than  a  butterfly.  She  is  as  cold  as  a  sheet  of 
glass  to  all  other  impressions  ;  but  if  you  touch  her  self-esteem, 
you  wound  her  to  the  quick." 

"  It  is  the  old  story,"  I  said.  "You  interpret  every  one's 
disposition  with  kindliness,  except  hers.  I  don't  ask  you 


1 66  KILMEXY. 

what  you  have  clone  to  her,  but  what  has  she  done  to  you,  that 
you  should  be  so  savage  with  her?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  dealing  savagely  with  her.  I  only 
gave  you  my  honest  impression  of  her  character — which  may 
be  quite  wrong.  I  began  to  believe  myself  that  it  was  wrong, 
when  she  spoke  to  me  of  you  last  evening.  I  could  scarcely 
credit  that  it  was  Bonnie  Lesley  who  spoke  to  me,  and  she 
must  have  seen  something  of  this,  for  she  said,  'When  once 
you  form  your  judgment  of  people,  I  suppose  you  never  alter 
it?" 

"  And  what  did  you  answer  ?  " 

"  Some  ordinary  compliment,  which  rather  vexed  her.  Let 
us  see  what  her  penitence  leads  to,  Ted,  before  saying  any- 
thing further." 

"  By  the  way,"  I  said,  "  I  wish  you  to  do  me  a  great 
service." 

"  I  will,"  he  said,  "  if  it  is  not  connected  with  her.  But  I 
decline  entirely — " 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  her.  You  remember  my  telling 
you  how  I  buried  a  half-crown  in  a  dell  many  years  ago  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  want  you  to  go  this  afternoon  and  dig  it  up.  You  will 
easily  find  it.  Ask  one  of  the  keepers  to  show  you  Squirrel 
Dell.  Down  in  the  hollow  there  is  a  tall  ash-tree ;  and  the 
stone  I  put  over  the  half-crown  is  only  a  yard  or  so  from  the 
foot  of  the  trunk.  Very  likely  it  is  grown  over  with  weeds  or 
hidden  by  the  bushes,  and  you  may  have  to  scrape  about  a 
little.  But  if  you  can't  find  it,  get  one  of  the  keepers  and  tell 
him  I  will  give  him  a  sovereign  if  the  half-crown  is  found, 
and  we  shall  have  it  before  the  morning." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  with  it,  Ted  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Miss  Burnham  is  coming  over  here  to-morrow  morning, 
and  I  mean  to  give  it  to  her." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

QUITS. 

I  HAVE  said  something  of  the  strange  flashes  of  con- 
sciousness which  suddenly  reveal  to  a  man  his  position. 
They  resemble  those  glimpses  of  half-forgotten  actions  and 
words  which  a  man  who  had  been  drinking  too  much  wine 
after  dinner  recalls  the  next  morning,  and  by  which  he  can 


1(7 

instantaneously  picture  certain  events  of  the  evening  before 
\vhich  had  wholly  escaped  his  memory.  It  now  occurred  to  me 
as  passing  strange  that,  after  an  interval  of  only  a  fewyears,  I 
should  be  able  to  lie  in  bed  from  day  to  day,  and  do  nothing, 
without  running  up  a  fearful  amount  of  debt  and  earning  the 
accumulated  growls  of  Weavle.  What  a  blessed  thing  was 
this  freedom,  this  independence,  which  the  possession  of  a 
little  money  gave  !  It  seemed  very  strange  that,  instead  of 
having  to  work  wearily  and  economize  painfully,  one  had  only 
to  remain  still,  and  let  the  mysterious  agent  out-of-doors  go 
silently  on,  multiplying  sovereigns,  and  supplying  us  with  as 
many  as  our  small  needs  required. 

Was  I  not  now  as  independent  as  the  people  whom  I  need 
to  envy  in  the  Row  ?  That  evening  I  walked  around  the 
Serpentine,  with  eighty  pounds  clasped  in  my  hand,  I  was 
proud  enough  ;  and  yet  I  knew  not  how  long  the  money,  even 
if  I  were  to  claim  it,  would  last.  Now  I  had  a  machine  for 
coining  money;  and  it  went  on  day  and  nigh*-,  day  and  night 
turning  out  that  small  flow  of  sovereigns.  We  had  to  spare. 
If  I  saw  a  poor  wretch  wanting  his  dinner,  could  I  not  give 
him  five  shillings  and  make  him  happy  ?  Walking  along  th.3 
London  streets,  I  should  have  in  my  pocket  the  possibility 
of  rejoicing  the  heart  of  any  wretched  beggar  or  starving 
child  or  needy  seamstress  whom  I  met.  While  in  London, 
I  had  scarcely  realized  all  this  to  myself.  Here,  in  the  still 
depths  of  Bucks,  I  had  time  to  scan  my  own  position,  the 
great  changes  that  had  so  naturally  and  easily  fallen  over  my 
life,  the  great  good-fortune  for  which  I  ought  to  be  so  thank- 
ful. And  I  thought  that  when  I  returned  to  London  I  should 
exercise  my  power,  and  go  about  the  streets  like  a  special 
Providence,  armed  with  half-crowns. 

During  these  fits  of  reflection  I  arrived  at  another  resolu- 
tion. It  became  clear  to  me  that  I  should  never  emancipate 
myself  wholly  from  the  depressing  and  constraining  influ- 
ences of  my  youth  unless  I  got  quite  away,  at  least  for  a  time, 
from  England  and  all  the  old  associations.  I  was  free  (except 
in  dreams)  from  the  tyranny  of  Weavle  ;  but  I  was  still  bound 
hard  and  fast  by  certain  notions  which  seemed  to  me  pecu- 
liarly of  English  growth.  I  was  more  a  gamekeeper's  son  than 
an  independent  human  being  to  the  people  around  me — a 
small  sort  of  prodigy,  who  had  so  far  raised  himself  above 
what  ought  to  have  been  his  lot.  Now  I  wanted  to  go  into 
some  other  country — should  it  be  America,  where  the  free 
light  of  humanity  is  at  its  frankest  ? — to  assert  myself  as  a 
man  among  men.  To  break  asunder  the  old  influences,  to 


ics  KILMENY: 

engage  in  the  grand  levelling  process  of  competition,  and 
actually  discover  for  myself  my  own  value — that  was  the  pur- 
pose I  now  formed  in  these  long  days  at  Burnham,  with  tha 
breath  of  the  winter  already  telling  on  the  autumn  air. 

Naturally,  I  began  to  chafe  against  the  necessity  which  con- 
fined me  to  bed,  much  as  Heatherleigh  counselled  patience, 
and  pointed  out  that  I  ought  to  wait  to  see  what  effect  my 
"  Kilmeny  "  might  have  in  the  Academy. 

"  Do  you  think,  then,"  said  I,  "  that  it  is  sure  to  be  admit- 
ted?" 

"  Certain,"  he  said,  decisively ;  "just  as  certain  as  that 
everybody  will  recognise  the  likeness." 

"I  hope  not,"  I  said. 

"Why?" 

There  was  no  particular  answer  to  the  question  ;  although 
the  notion  of  this  picture  being  hung  on  the  Academy  walls, 
and  looked  at  by  many  people  whom  I  knew,  provoked  sev- 
eral strange  suggestions. 

But  before  telling  the  fate  of  "  Kilmeny,"  I  must  say  a 
word  about  the  visit  which  Hester  Burnham  and  Madame 
Laboureau  paid  me. 

Heatherleigh  had,  without  much  difficulty,  found  the  old, 
discolored  coin  which  I  had  buried  in  the  dell  years  before. 
I  looked  at  it  with  many  peculiar  emotions,  and  with  some 
faint  reflex  of  the  feeling  which  prompted  me  to  wreak  my 
wrath  on  an  unoffending  piece  of  silver.  I  remembered  again 
the  bitter  humiliation  I  suffered  when  Miss  Hester  offered 
to  take  back  the  money,  and  when  I  found  myself  unable  to 
give  it  to  her.  We  had  become  more  intimate  since  then ; 
but  I  dared  never  revert  to  this  subject.  Indeed,  the  mere 
thought  of  it  at  any  time  was  sufficient  to  break  down  the 
frail  bridge  of  acquaintanceship  that  had  been,  with  much 
uncertainty  and  diffidence,  established  between  us.  With  more 
of  years,  of  judgment,  and  reflection,  I  might  have  treasured 
that  poor  coin  as  the  witness  to  the  existence  in  the  world  of 
at  least  one  true,  kind  heart :  as  it  was,  I  hated  it,  and  wished 
that  I  could  bury  it  in  oblivion,  even  as  I  had  buried  it  in 
Squirrel  Dell,  with  all  the  bitter  recollections  of  that  memor- 
able day. 

When  Hester  Burnham  came  into  the  room,  she  was  very 
pale,  and  there  was  that  strange  ^low  in  her  dark  gray-blue  eyes 
that  testified  to  the  presence  of  some  strong  emotion.  Very 
pale  she  was,  and  beautiful ;  and  the  look  of  her  face  had  a 
tenderness  in  it  which  was  obviously  febrile,  uncertain,  ready  to 
break  into  tears.  Yet  the  quiet  little  woman,  with  that  won- 


QUITS,  169 

clerful  grace  and  carriage  of  hers,  came  over  and  timidly 
took  my  hand.  I  think  she  spoke  a  good  deal  in  a  low,  trem- 
ulous voice,  but  I  only  vaguely  knew  its  purport.  There  was 
something  so  extraordinarily  sweet  in  the  voice  that  you  were 
glad  to  listen  to  the  music  of  it  without  harkening  to  the 
words.  You  could  so  easily  read  the  emotions  that  the  thrill- 
ing, low,  soft  tones  expressed,  that  you  forgot  to  think  of 
words  and  sentences.  The  delight  of  hearing  her  speak 
seemed  to  blind  one  to  the  sense  of  what  she  said  ;  and  yet 
you  found  afterwards  that  you  had  followed  her  all  through 
her  pretty  entreaties,  her  protestations,  her  tenderly  expressed 
wishes.  I  should  like  to  have  shut  my  eyes,  and  lain  and  list- 
ened to  that  strangely  sweet  voice  forever. 

Madame  Laboureau  speedily  broke  the  spell  with  her 
bright,  quick  chatter,  and  her  dramatic  expressions  of  pro- 
found sympathy.  Of  course,  I  was  in  her  eyes  a  wonderful 
creature — a  hero.  I  had  saved  Miss  Hester's  life.  I  had 
been  severely  wounded  in  doing  so. — I  might  have  been 
killed— 

"That  would  have  been  more  romantic,"  I  said,  interrupt- 
ing her,  "  and  a  more  appropriate  end  to  the  adventure, 
wouldn't  it  ?  As  it  stands,  the  play  has  lasted  too  long 
already ;  and  you  can't  expect  to  have  people  wait  to  see  a 
fifth  act  that  extends  over  several  months,  and  is  played  in  a 
sick-room." 

"But  it  is  too  serious  for  a  play,  "  she  said,  shaking  her 
head,  "  though  I  am  glad  to  see  you  improving  yourself  much. 
You  must  keep  still,  and  have  no  excitations — then  you  may 
much  sooner  be  sound  again.  And  when  you  can  Miss  Hes- 
ter hopes  you  will  come  up  to  Burnham  and  make  perfect 
your — your  guerison  there.  The  room  is  all  prepared — it  is 
better  than  this  old  house. 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  much  obliged  to  Miss  Burnham,  and  to 
you,  Madame,"  I  said  ;  "  but  as  soon  as  I  can  move,  I  must 
go  back  to  London." 

"  You  will  not  think  of  that  ! "  said  Miss  Burnham,  sud- 
denly. 

She  had  been  sitting  quite  silent,  still  apparently  a  little 
pale  and  excited,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.  NTow 
she  looked  up  with  surprise  visible  in  them. 

"  The  winter  exhibitions  will  be  open  shortly.  If  I  have 
been  able  to  do  nothing  myself,  I  must  see'  what  others 
have  been  doing." 

"  But  you  have  one  picture  ? "  she  said,  turning  her  eyes 
upon  me. 


1 70  A'lLMEXY. 

I  clared  not  meet  that  glance,  lest  there  should  be  a  ques- 
tion in  it.  I  said  to  her — 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  picture  that  Heatherleigh  thinks  might  do 
without  further  finishing.  If  I  cannot  work  between  this  and 
then  I  may  send  it  as  it  is,  to  take  its  chance  of  the  Academy. 
But  who  told  you  of  it  ? " 

"  Mr.  Morell ;  and  he  thinks  it  will  make  a  great  impres- 
sion." 

"  He  may  think  so,"  I  said,  "for  he  hasn't  seen  it." 

"  Oh,  he  has  not  seen  it  ?  "  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  No." 

"  Mais  c'est  un  veritable  prodige,  ce  monsieur,"  said  Mad- 
ame. "  He  knows  everything,  everybody  ;  he  has  been  every- 
where ;  he  can  do  anything,  except  play  the  German  music. 
Oh !  he  plays  Beethoven  as  if  it  was  Gung'l  and  Mozart  as  if 
it  was  Offenbach.  I  cannot  bear  him  then  ;  but  at  other 
times  he  is  charming.  And  your  Bonnie  Lesley  thinks  so, 
does  she  not  ?  " 

Madame  appealed  to  her  companion,  who  did  not  answer. 

"  Mr.  Morell  may  be  able  to  speak  of  the  picture  without 
having  seen  it,"  said  I ;  "  but  if  he  had  exercised  his  miracu- 
lous powers  of  vision  before  firing  through  a  certain  tree — " 

"That  is  a  mystery !"  exclaimed  Madame,  decisively. 
"  Did  he  think  the  gun  was  not  loaded  ?  Did  he  fire  only  to 
frighten  whoever  was  playing  tricks  ?  Or  did  he  believe  in  the 
spirits,  and  fire  at  them  ?  I  have  never  been  able  to  compre- 
hend, so  rapid  he  talks  on  that  subject.  He  is  so  anxious  to 
explain,  he  is  to  me  unintelligible.  And  he  goes  back  to  town 
to-morrow." 

"  He  does  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  says  he  cannot  bear  to  remain  here,  after  the 
accident.  And  soon  we  shall  have  all  our  party  broken  away, 
and  be  alone  again  ;  and  so  it  would  be  quiet  for  you  if  you 
come  to  Burnham — " 

Mere  my  mother,  who  had  been  over  to  Great  Missenden, 
came  up-stairs,  and  was  at  once  attacked  by  Madame  Labou- 
reau  on  the  subject  of  my  removal  to  Burnham  House.  Shel- 
tered by  their  brisk  talk,  Miss  Hester  stole  over  to  my  side, 
and  said,  with  her  eyes  cast  down — 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  to  Burnham.  There  is  so  little  that 
I  can  do  to  show  you  how  grateful  I  am — how  impossible  it 
is  for  me  to  say — " 

"You  need  say  nothing,"  I  said  to  her.  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber, a  good  many  years  ago,  your  making  me  your  debtor  to 
the  extent  of  half  a  crown  ?  " 


A  WILD  GUESS.  171 

She  raised  her  eyes  suddenly,  and  there  was  reproach  there, 
with  a  touch  of  pain  and  even  of  indignation. 

"  You  bring  that  up  again,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  Is  the 
mistake  of  a  girl,  of  a  child,  to  last  through  a  lifetime  ?  You 
know  ho\v  that  misadventure  has  made  strangers  of  us  all  this 
time  ;  but  I  thought  you  had  at  last  allowed  it  to  be  forgot- 
ten. You  revive  it  now  to  pain  me — perhaps  to  insult  me. 
It  is  not  fair — I  do  not  deserve  it — " 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  for  that  purpose  I  revived  the  old 
story  ?  "  I  said,  looking  at  her.  "  When,  not  knowing  what  I 
did,  I  took  the  money  you  gave  me,  I  carried  it  over  to  Burn- 
ham,  and  buried  it  there  in  the  ground.  When  you  offered 
to  take  it  back  again,  I  could  not  give  it  to  you ;  and  I  was 
too  proud  to  take  it  to  you  afterwards.  It  has  lain  there 
until  yesterday ;  but  I  have  it  in  my  hand  now ;  and  I  have 
it  that  I  may  give  it  back  to  you,  if  you  will  take  it." 

"You  want  to  make  me  altogether  your  debtor,"  she  said, 
with  a  strange,  sad  smile,  as  she  took  the  tarnished  silver  coin, 
and  looked  at  it  wistfully.  "  I  am  not  so  proud  as  you  are,  I 
think." 

She  opened  her  purse,  and  took  the  accursed  bit  of  money, 
and  laid  it — almost  tenderly,  I  fancied — in  the'  crimson  silk. 
As  she  left,  she  stealthily  pressed  my  hand,  and  both  of  us 
knew  from  that  moment  that  henceforth  we  were  nearer  to 
each  other. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A   WILD  GUESS. 

"  I  AM  not  so  proud  as  you  are,  I  think."  The  phrase  lin- 
gered long  with  me  in  these  dull  days,  while  I  waited  and 
wearied  for  the  coming  time  of  action.  For  already  I  smelt 
the  wintry  air — the  cold,  misty  flavor  in  the  atmosphere  that 
tells  of  the  close,  dark  winter,  the  long  nights  and  hard  work. 
The  glorious  Buckinghamshire  autumn  slipped  by  me  unno- 
ticed. I  saw  none  of  the  glare  of  color  that,  as  I  knew,  lay 
along  the  far  beech-woods,  while  the  red  sunsets  burned  over 
the  stripped  harvest-fields  and  the  brown  ploughed  lands.  I 
saw  none  of  the  gradual  change  from  olive  green  to  the  glow- 
ing gold  and  crimson  that  make  these  hills  a  wonder ;  for, 
when  I  was  able  to  go  out,  the  time  of  hoar-frost,  and  morn- 
ing mist,  and  cold  coppery  sunlight  had  arrived,  and  the  day 


T;  2  KILMEXY. 

was  sluggish  and  heartless  and  short.  All  the  more  I  hun- 
gered for  the  life  and  activity  of  London — for  the  joyous  gas- 
lamps,  and  the  quick  stir  of  labor,  the  comfort  of  warm  rooms, 
and  the  intense  pleasure  of  work  well  done.  Every  one  had 
gone  from  Burnham  House  now,  except  Miss  Hester  and  her 
small,  bright  French  friend  and  companion.  Morell  had 
speedily  left,  and  had  sent  me  many  a  chatty,  vivacious  letter, 
and  many  a  journal,  foreign  and  domestic ;  Bonnie  Lesley 
and  the  Lewisons  were  again  at  Regent's  Park;  Heatherleigh 
had  finished  the  panels,  and  had  returned  to  assiduous  labor 
in  Granby  Street;  Alfred  Burnham  had  gone  I  knew  not 
where —  his  father  likewise.  Only  Miss  Hester  lingered  here, 
and  wandered  about  the  still,  cold  park,  or  rode  down  the 
rimy  lanes  in  the  morning  air,  when  the  scarlet  hips  and  the 
ruddy  haws  were  frosted  with  white,  and  when  the  struggling 
sun  had  just  managed  to  melt  the  hoar-frost  on  the  spiders' 
webs,  and  change  them  to  strings  of  incrustecl,  gleaming  jew- 
els. Red  and  crisp  were  the  leaves  that  still  hung  on  the 
trees,  while  those  that  lay  rotting  in  the  damp  woods  were 
orange  and  brown  and  black.  The  tall,  broad  brackens,  too, 
that  had  a  few  weeks  ago  turned  from  a  dark  green  to  a  pale 
gold,  were  getting  sombre  and  limp ;  while  everywhere  in  the 
woods  frosted  berries  came  to  be  visible  along  the  bare,  leafless 
stalks  of  bramble  and  dog-rose,  of  rowan  and  elder  and  white- 
thorn. It  was  a  cold,  cheerless  time  out  here  for  any  one 
who  was  not  after  the  pheasants  of  Burnham  woods,  or  the 
hares  that  lay  out  on  the  hill-sides;  and  it  often  seemed  to 
me,  looking  clown  the  cold,  still  valley,  with  the  yellow,  wintry 
sunshine  glimmering  along  the  dull  fields  and  the  voiceless 
farmsteads,  that  I  could  hear  the  low,  hurried  throb  of  Lon- 
don life,  and  the  murmur  of  its  innumerable  wheels. 

At  length  the  time  arrived  when  I  was  able  to  undertake 
the  journey.  I  wished  to  say  good-bye  to  Hester  Burnham, 
and  while  I  was  still  debating  whether  to  venture  upon  walk- 
ing across  to  Burnham  House,  she  and  Madame  Laboureau 
made  their  appearance.  They  had  made  several  calls  of  a 
like  nature  before,  and  were  aware  that  I  purposed  going  to 
London,  but  both  of  them  seemed  surprised  when  I  now  in- 
formed them  that  I  should  leave  next  day. 

"You  ought  not  to  go  yet,"  said  Miss  Hester,  quietly,  her 
eyes  turned  the  other  way. 

"  You  will  not  allow  it,  Mrs.  Ives,  will  you?"  said  Madame. 

By  and  by,  however,  when  they  saw  that  our  departure  had 
already  been  settled,  they  were  anxious  that  they  should  help 
a  little  towards  our  comfortable  travelling. 


GUESS.  173 

"  Did  you  mean  to  go  up  by  the  coach,  or  by  the  train  from 
Wycombe  ?  "  asked  Miss  Hester,  of  my  mother. 

"  \Ve  thought  there  would  be  less  jolting  by  the  coach,  and 
there  is  a  cab  ordered  to  come  over  from  Missenden  to- 
morrow morning  for  us." 

"  But  the  coach  goes  very  early,  does  it  not  ?  "  asked  Mad- 
ame. 

"  Seven." 

"  And  you  leave  here — " 

"  About  six." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  In  the  dark  of  a  winter  morning  !  Is  that 
proper  travelling  for  an  invalid  ?  " 

"I  hope,  Mrs.  Ives,"  said  Miss  Burnham,  "that  you  will 
let  me  send  a  carriage  for  you.  It  will  be  so  much  better 
that  you  should  start  at  any  hour  you  please,  and  go  all  the 
way  in  one  vehicle,  without  the  bother  of  changing.  Besides 
the  jolting,  you  will  have  the  draughts  and  discomfort  of  both 
the  cab  and  the  Missenden  coach ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
if  you  let  me  send  a  carriage  for  you,  you  may  make  a  leisurely 
day's  journey  of  it,  and  Cracknell  may  come  down  again  the 
next  day,  or  the  day  after." 

"  I  could  not  think  of  such  a  thing,  Miss  Hester,"  said  my 
mother,  who  knew  how  seldom  that  luxury  had  been  indulged 
in  even  by  the  Burnhams  themselves  since  the  opening  of 
the  railway. 

"  Then  I  must  appeal  to  you,"  said  Hester  Burnham,  turn- 
ing to  me,  with  her  frank  eyes. 

Why,  her  manner  had  something  of  a  challenge  in  it.  Her 
regard  seemed  to  say,  "  Two  months  ago  you  and  I  buried 
the  old  feud  between  us,  and  promised  to  be  friends.  Show 
that  it  is  so."  I  accepted  the  challenge,  and  replied  to  her 
frank  look — 

"  Sha'n't  you  want  the  carnage  or  the  horses  for  a  day  or 
two  ? " 

"  Certainly  not.     I  never  drive  now  ;  I  always  ride." 

"  Then,  since  you  are  so  kind,  we  shall  be  very  glad  to  ac- 
cept your  offer.  Only,  I  hope  we  are  not  disturbing  your  ar- 
rangements in  any  way." 

You  would  have  thought,  from  her  bright,  quick  look  of  grat- 
itude, that  I  had  conferred  a  favor  on  her ;  but  it  was  only 
her  pleasure  at  seeing  that  I  understood  the  implied  challenge 
she  had  thrown  down. 

Next  morning,  about  ten  o'clock,  just  as  the  sun  was  be- 
ginning to  thaw  the  gray  frosty  roughness  of  the  morning,  the 
carriage  was  driven  up  the  avenue  of  bare  limes  to  the  Ma- 


174  KILMEXY. 

jor's  door.     I  was  surprised  to  see  Miss  Hester  and  Madame 
Laboureau  alight. 

"  You  must  have  got  up  as  early  as  we  intended  to  do," 
said  I. 

"  We  wished  to  see  you  off,"  said  she,  simply ;  and  then 
she  turned  to  my  mother  to  say  that,  as  the  hostelries  be- 
tween Burnham  and  London  were  mainly  of  a  dubious  kind, 
she  had  sent  with  the  carriage  something  in  the  way  of  lun- 
cheon. This,  as  we  afterwards  found,  was  a  modest  way  of 
representing  the  wonderful  preparations  she  had  caused  to 
be  made  for  us.  A  very  good  friend  of  mine  is  accustomed 
to  point  out  the  curious  fact  that  men  who  never  ride  a  horse, 
or  expect  to  ride  a  horse,  are  in  the  habit  of  carrying  about 
with  them  for  years  an  instrument,  attached  to  their  pocket- 
knife,  for  picking  stones  out  of  a  horse's  hoof.  There  was 
something  of  the  same  extravagant  forethought  in  the  arrange- 
ments which  Hester  Burnham  had  made  about  our  day's  jour- 
ney to  London,  which  might  have  been  meant,  so  far  as  they 
were  concerned,  for  a  week's  travelling  in  Norway  ;  and  yet 
who  could  even  make  fun  over  these  incongruities  of  a  great 
thoughtfulness  and  kindness  !  When  I  did  venture  to  suggest, 
during  the  journey,  that  Miss  Hester  might  have  added  to  our 
stores  a  coffee-grinding  machine,  a  patent  percolator,  and  a 
spirit-lamp,  my  mother  seemed  much  hurt,  and  remarked  that 
we  could  not  have  been  better  provided  for  had  we  been  princes. 
It  was,  however,  my  first  essay  in  travellings  la  mode  de prince ; 
and  I  had  to  learn  that  even  royalty  must  submit  to  condi- 
tions. 

"  Au  revoir — bon  voyage  !  "  said  Madame,  as  the  carriage 
door  was  closed. 

"  We  shall  see  you  in  London,  shall  we  not  ? "  said  Hester 
Burnham,  looking  to  my  mother ;  then  she  said  good-bye  to 
me,  in  her  simple,  direct  fashion,  and  we  drove  off. 

As  we  gained  the  main  road  near  Missenden,  IJput  my  head 
out  of  the  carriage  window  and  looked  along  the  spacious 
valley  towards  Burnham.  Far  up  on  the  opposite  heights, 
near  the  margin  of  Coney-bank  Wood,  where  the  morning  sun 
was  shimmering  palely  along  the  hill,  I  saw  two  figures.  I 
think  they  were  standing  and  looking  back.  I  waved  a  hand- 
kerchief to  them ;  and  one  of  them — presumably  Madame — 
fluttered  something  white  in  return.  That  was  the  last  I  saw 
of  Hester  Burnham  for  many  a  day. 

There  was  more  of  hard  study  than  of  ambitious  effort  for 
me  during  the  remainder  of  that  winter.  I  attended  a  certain 
life-class,  where  models,  of  no  very  intellectual  type  of  beauty, 


677-.-.Y.9.  175 

of  both  sexes,  and  of  various  degrees  of  costume  stood  on  the 
raised  platform,  or  sat,  on  cold  nights,  upon  a  warm  stove, 
to  be  roughly  outlined  and  colored  by  the  busy  young  men 
who  sat  in  a  semicircle  before  them.  The  room  was  not  a 
large  one,  and  the  glare  of  gas,  with  the  stove  which  was  nec- 
essary to  keep  alive  the  (when  clad)  thinly  clad  models,  ren- 
dered the  atmosphere  a  not  particularly  healthy  one.  Indeed, 
what  with  that,  and  other  studies  which  I  could  not  help 
myself  following,  I  felt  that  I  was  just  hovering  on  the  verge 
of  my  slowly  accumulating  strength,  and  that  some  caution 
was  necessary  to  prevent  a  collapse  and  catastrophe. 

Despite  the  entreaties  of  Heatherleigh  and  Polly  Whistler, 
I  sometimes  fell  to  working  a  little  at  the  "  Kilmeny,"  as  it 
seemed  impossible  to  me  that  a  picture  with  so  little  real 
labor  in  it  could  be  worth  so  much.  But  at  length  I  resolved 
to  leave  it  as  it  stood,  and  let  it  take  its  chance.  Many  of 
my  fellow-students,  and  of  Heatherleigh's  maturer  artistic 
friends,  had  seen  it,  and  were  sufficiently  hopeful.  But  artists 
are  singularly  devoid  of  the  vice  of  meaningless  flattery  when 
called  upon  to  judge,  ex  qffitio,  ctf  the  work  of  a  friend. "  They 
talk  of  your  weak  points  with  an  incorrigible  frankness, 
while  pointing  out  quite  as  frankly  what  they  consider  the 
strong  points  of  the  work.  On  the  whole,  I  was  fairly  sat- 
isfied with  its  chance  of  acceptance ;  although  inwardly  I 
chafed  at  not  being  able,  through  want  of  experience  in  man- 
ipulation, to  make  it  what  I  saw  it  ought  to  be. 

Under  Heatherleigh's  auspices  I  had  become  a  member  of 
the  Sumner  Society — a  society  of  artists  who  held,  and  still 
hold,  a  little  half-private,  half-public  exhibition  of  their  pic- 
tures prior  to  their  being  sent  to  the  Academy.  "  Kilmeny," 
having  been  properly  framed  and  labelled,  was  left  at  the 
rooms  of  the  society,  and  as  the  evening  drew  near  when  the 
exhibition  was  to  come  off,  I  waited  with  a  burning  anxiety 
to  see  how  it  would  look  hung  up  on  a  wall,  among  other 
pictures  painted  by  men  of  renown.  I  got  so  to  fear  this 
ordeal,  that  I  could  scarcely  muster  up  courage  to  accompany 
Heatherleigh  on  the  night  of  the  display. 

We  went  first  to  a  tavern  in  Oxford  Street,  near  the  cor- 
ner of  Regent  Street,  which  was  then  much  frequented,  as  a 
chop-house,  by  members  of  the  society.  Here  we  found  a 
goodly  company  of  artists — always  distinguishable  by  the 
preponderance  of  velveteen  coats,  which  seem  to  hit  the  ar- 
tistic fancy  as  powerfully  as  seal-skin  waistcoats  appeal  to  the 
journalistic  taste — engaged  in  the  different  phases  of  dining, 
drinking,  and  smoking.  A  bronzed,  intelligent,  manly-looking 


1-6  A'lLMENY. 

lot  of  men  they  were,  with  their  slovenly  dress,  their  quick  jest, 
their  hearty  laugh.  More  than  any  other  men,  I  think,  artists 
enjoy  the  means  by  which  they  make  their  bread  ;  and  they 
bring  back  from  the  country  with  them,  along  with  good  spirits 
and  a  capital  appetite,  a  rare  fund  of  good  stories  and  jokes, 
and  bits  of  character  observation.  The  shop,  it  is  true,  is  a 
little  too  much  with  them ;  but  when  they  get  out  of  that, 
there  are  no  such  men  for  boon  companions — their  intellect 
quickened  by  much  seeing,  their  habit  of  life  eminently 
sociable  and  enjoyable.  But  they  are  better  company  to 
others  than  to  themselves  ;  for  the  long  evenings,  devoted 
chiefly  to  talk,  at  last  get  to  the  end  of  a  man's  jokes  and 
stories.  It  used  to  be  the  pride  of  the  Sumners  to  defy  any 
outsider  to  tell  them  a  new  story ;  but  that  proficiency  was 
purchased  dearly  by  the  dearth  of  novelty  among  themselves. 
Now  and  again  a  man  did  introduce  a  fresh  anecdote  ;  and 
then  it  was  accurately  measured,  judged,  and  laid  on  the 
shelf.  I  should  like  to  write  a  good  deal  about  the  frank 
fellowship,  the  unworldliness,  the  rough,  practical,  healthy 
joyousness  of  artistic  society  in  general ;  but  all  that  has 
been  described  by  abler  pens  than  mine — by  men  who,  being 
entirely  outside  of  it  and  unconnected  with  it,  could  better 
appreciate  its  peculiarities  than  I. 

Certainly  there  was  no  want  of  talk,  for  several  of  the  men 
now  met  for  the  first  time  after  their  summer  and  autumn 
wanderings.  There  were  stories  of  eccentric  farmer's  wives 
in  Sussex,  of  adventures  in  the  Ross-shire  glens,  of  fishing- 
nights  off  the  Devon  coast.  But  the  grand  current  of  the 
talk,  of  course,  set  in  towards  the  forthcoming  Academy,  and 
there  were  plenty  of  hazardous  prophecies  and  strenuous 
opinions  about  the  great  works  which  were  known  to  be  yet 
on  the  easel.  One  or  two  of  those  present  had  not  finished 
their  pictures — were  actually  fighting  against  time  during 
these  last  few  days — and  were,  one  could  fancy,  less  noisy 
and  joyous  than  their  companions  who  had  their  labors  con- 
summated off  their  minds. 

Shortly  after  eight  o'clock,  a  general  movement  was  made 
to  the  chambers,  situated  in  the  neighborhood,  in  which  the 
temporary  exhibition  was  to  be  held.  They  were  two  long, 
narrow  rooms,  which  were  ordinarily  used  for  drawing-classes, 
and  from  the  dusky  corners  and  gloomy  shelves  which  were 
not  covered  by  the  new  pictures  there  glimmered  out  frag- 
ments of  plaster  casts — a  bust  of  Jupiter  with  marked  lines 
of  spider-webs  about  it,  the  ubiquitous  disk-thrower,  the  bro- 
ken-armed and  reclining  Theseus,  the  wavy-haired  and  calm- 


browed  Venus  of  Milo,  with  here  and  there  an  arm  or  a  leg 
finely  shaded  with  dust.  Down  the  middle  of  the  two  long 
rooms  went  a  double  screen,  on  which  pictures  were  also 
hung,  the  passage  between  it  r.nd  the  walls  being  so  narrow 
that  anything  like  rapid  circulation  on  the  part  of  those  who 
now  entered  the  place  was  clearly  impossible. 

Heatherleigh  seemed  not  to  look  out  for  his  own  pictures 
at  all.  When  our  eyes  had  got  accustomed  to  the  glare  of 
the  gas  and  the  gilt  frames,  he  carefully  glanced  around  the 
walls. 

'•  It  is  not  in  this  room,  at  all  events,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  *  Kilmeny  ? ' ' 

'•  Yes,"  said  he,  struggling  through  the  crowd  that  had 
already  wedged  itself  into  the  narrow  apertures. 

We  had  just  got  to  the  door  dividing  the  two  chambers 
when  Heatherleigh,  looking  far  over  the  heads  before  him, 
exclaimed — 

*'  By  Jove,  it  *  shines  where  it  stands ! ' ' 

A  moment  after  I  caught  sight  of  "  Kilmeny,"  and  started 
as  if  I  had  seen  a  ghost.  For  now  there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  the  likeness  of  which  Heatherleigh  had  spoken.  I  had 
tried  to  blind  myself  to  the  fact;  and,  in  the  solitude  of  my 
own  room,  I  had  gazed  at  the  face  until  I  had  convinced 
myself  that  it  was  not  that  other  face.  But  here  the  picture 
seemed  beyond  any  thwarted  interpretation.  It  stood  up 
there,  at  the  head  of  the  room — scarcely  veiled  by  the  mist 
of  yellow  light  through  which  I  saw  it — as  a  definite  witness, 
and  looked  down  upon  me,  as  I  fancied,  accusingly.  I 
moved  nearer.  There  were  some  men  round  it,  and  they 
were  criticising  the  picture  freely.  Heatherleigh  called  out 
to  one  of  them,  and  this  had  the  effect  of  announcing  our 
approach,  so  that  I  fortunately  missed  hearing  what  they 
said.  Now,  out  of  mere  modesty,  a  man  may  not  stare  at  his 
own  picture  in  an  exhibition-room ;  and  I  was  forced  to  turn 
away.  Yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  eyes  of  it  followed  me 
with  a  mute  reproach.  It  was  no  longer  Kilmeny.  It  was  a 
beautiful,  sweet  face  that  I  was  familiar  with,  and  it  said, 
"  Why  have  you  put  me  up  here,  among  all  these  people  ?  " 
The  unconscious  wonder  of  Kilmeny'seyes  was  gone.  There 
was  no  more  unearthly  lustre  in  them  ;  but  the  wise,  sweet 
look  of  the  face  that  I  knew;  and  I  felt  ashamed  of  the  pro- 
fanation. 

"  Why,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "you  don't  seem  proud  of  the 
place  you  have  got,  or  of  the  notice  they  are  taking  of  the 
picture.  It  holds  its  own,  I  can  tell  you." 


i7S  KILMENY. 

"  I  wish  I  could  whitewash  it,"  said  I ;  "  I  never  saw  that 
likeness  until  now." 

"  You  must  have  been  blind,  then.  But  here  is  a  man 
coming  towards  us  who  is  competent  to  speak  on  the  subject. 
He  is  some  sort  of  a  half-cousin  of  hers — Mr.  Webb." 

"  The  Webb  who  is  member  for  Gosworth — who  married 
the  Earl  of 's  daughter  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  and  Lady  Louisa  used  to  be  great  patrons  of 
mine,  until,  I  think,  they  were  disgusted  because  I  was  not 
anxious  to  become  famous  under  their  tutelage." 

Mr.  Webb  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  gray,  careworn  face, 
sunken  gray  eyes,  a  black  wig,  and  an  eye-glass  which  he 
kept  nervously  twitching  about.  He  spoke  in  a  hasty,  con- 
fused manner,  and  had  an  odd  fashion  of  not  looking  at  you 
until  he  had  got  out  the  last  word  of  the  sentence,  and  then 
he  glanced  up  as  if  to  drive  the  sentence  home.  When  I 
had  been  introduced  to  him,  and  when  he  had  studied  the 
picture  for  some  considerable  time,  he  muttered  to  himself, 
"  Very  good — very  good — very  good  ;  "  and  then  he  turned 
sharply  to  me,  with  his  eyes  glancing  towards  his  boots — 

"  Did  she  sit  for  this  likeness  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Striking  likeness — very  striking  likeness.  Have  you  sold 
the  picture  ? " 

"  No,"  said  I.  "  Nor  do  I  mean  to  sell  it,  if  it  is  as  clearly 
a  likeness  as  you  say." 

This  time  he  did  look  up,  and  fixed  his  sunken  gray  eyes 
on  me  in  a  curious  way,  as  he  said,  slowly — 

"  May  I  venture  to  ask  why  you  have  taken  that  resolu- 
tion?" 

"  Why,  merely  that  I  have  no  right  to  sell  a  portrait  of 
anybody  without  his  or  her  consent.  Surely  that  is  a  suffi- 
cient reason.  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  much  of  a  likeness 
until  I  was  informed  of  it — or  I  should  not  have  sent  it  here 
even." 

"That  is  quite  right, — very  right,"  he  said;  "but  your 
objection  to  sell  it — if  otherwise  you  would  sell  it — does  not 
apply  to  me.  You  may  call  it  a  family  picture.  But  it  is  not 
as  a  likeness  that  I  wish  to  have  it.  What  do  you  say — 
what  do  you  say  ?  Perhaps  we  ought  to  have  a  little  talk 
over  it,  if  you  don't  mind  the  trouble.  Let  me  see.  Shall 
you  be  passing  the  House  any  time  to-morrow  ? " 

"  I  will  keep  any  appointment  you  like  to  make,"  said  I. 

"  I  shall  be  down  to-morrow  about  two.  From  that  to  four 
•or  five  I  shall  be  at  your  service." 


./  ir// /)  GUESS. 

With  that  he  passed  on  to  the  other  pictures. 

M  1  congratulate  you/'  said  Heatherleigh.  "  I  suppose 
you  fancy  that  eccentric  gentleman,  who  looks  like  a  broken- 
down  banker,  is  the  victim  of  a  good-natured  whim.  If  you 
do,  you  make  a  mistake.  With  these  few  seconds  looking 
over  your  picture,  he  could  tell  you  more  about  it  now  than 
you  know  yourself.  He  has  spent  his  life  in  studying  and 
buying  pictures,  all  over  Europe,  and,  though  he  enjoys 
extending  a  little  patronage  now  and  again,  like  other  men, 
he  does  not  buy  bad  pictures  out  of  charity.  Take  what  you 
can  get  from  him  for  your  picture  ;  for  you  may  be  sure  he 
won't  give  you  more  than  it's  value.  Who  knows  but  that 
he  and  Lady  Louisa  may  take  you  up,  and  become  your 
patrons,  as  in  the  old  days  ?  They  were  good  enough  to 
patronize  me  a  little ;  but  they  found  that  I  had  little  ambu 
tion  ;  that  I  was  lazy ;  that,  when  I  went  down  to  Clarges 
Castle,  in  Hants,  I  used  to  disappear  for  hours  when  I  was 
most  wanted,  and  be  found  smoking  a  pipe  in  a  conserva- 
tory.'' 

"  Had  they  put  up  a  tight  rope  for  you  across  the  lawn,  or 
how  were  you  expected  to  amuse  your  patrons  ?  " 

"Don't  you  make  a  mistake,"  said  Heatherleigh;  "the 
good  graces,  well-intentioned,  of  rich  people  are  not  to  be 
despised.  You  should  value  the  friendship  of  a  rich  man,  not 
because  he  is  rich,  but  because  his  being  rich  is  a  proof  .of 
the  disinterestedness  of  his  friendship.  There  !  that  sounds 
like  a  proverb  ;  but  it  is  common-sense." 

Heatherleigh  was  rather  in  the  habit  of  uttering  maxims 
of  this  kind.  Once,  clown  at  Brighton,  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham 
got  into  a  very  bad  temper  with  the  billiard-marker  at  his 
hotel.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  the  marker  had  been 
trying  on  a  bit  of  sharp  practice,  and  lied  about  it ;  where- 
upon Alfred  Burnham  fell  to  cursing  and  swearing  at  him. 
The  marker  appealed  to  Heatherleigh,  who  listened  atten- 
tively, and  tried  to  smooth  down  the  matter,  when  Burnham 
exclaimed — 

"  By  Jove,  Heatherleigh,  you  speak  to  a  billiard-marker  as 
if  he  were  a  gentleman  !  " 

Whereupon  Heatherleigh  replied,  with  a  sharp  look  in  his 
eye— 

"I  speak  courteously  to  a  billiard-marker,  not  because  he 
is  a  gentleman,  but  because  /am." 

Mr.  Burnham  pretended  not  to  hear  that  remark,  and 
made  a  very  pretty  losing-hazard,  without,  however,  having 
previously  touched  either  of  the  other  balls. 


When  all  the  pictures  had  been  gone  over  again  and  again, 
commented  on,  criticised,  and  their  future  chances  canvassed, 
there  was  a  general  disposition  towards  pipes  and  beer. 
Those  who  could  extemporize  a  seat  or  stool  of  any  kind, 
did  so  ;  while  those  who  were  too  tightly  wedged  in  to  move, 
struggled  to  open  their  coats,  and  get  at  their  fobacco. 
Heatherleigh  and  one  or  two  more  of  us  got  into  a  safe 
corner,  and  monopolized  a  small  platform,  whither  was 
speedly  brought  one, of  the  large  jugs  of  ale  that  were  now 
being  introduced.  In  a  remarkably  short  space  of  time  the 
atmosphere  had  thickened,  so  that  the  blazing  gas-lights  were 
palpably  pale.  A  dense  blue  atmosphere  hung  over  the 
place,  and  the  thicker  it  grew  the  louder  grew  the  Babel  of 
voices — with  hurried  jests,  and  scraps  of  welcome,  and  bits 
of  criticism  flying  about,  attacking  the  ear  from  all  points, 
and  leaving  the  brain  somewhat  bewildered.  In  our  secluded 
corner,  however,  a  choice  company  had  assembled ;  one  of 
them,  a  burly  gentleman,  in  a  velveteen  coat  and  immense 
water-proof  leggings,  declaring  that  gallons  of  beer  were 
useless  in  slaking  his  thirst,  now  that  the  Royal  Academi- 
cians had  made  a  drunkard  of  him. 

"But  why  the  Academicians  ?  "  said  Heatherleigh. 

"That  was. the  very  natural  question  Lady  Osborne  asked 
me  last  week,"  said  he,  with  a  laugh ;  "  and  I  told  her 
simply :  '  I  go  to  the  Academy  exhibitions  every  year  as  a 
duty  ;  and  of  course  I  look  out  for  the  Academicians'  works 
first.  Well,  of  late  I  have  found  them  so  confoundedly 
bad  that  I  had  to  go  out  after  looking  at  each  picture  for  a 
glass  of  brandy.  I  have  been  forced  to  become  a  drunkard 
in  order  to  keep  my  stomach  steady. ' ' 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  tell  her  ladyship  the  stoiy  in  these 
words  ? "  said  one. 

"  More's  the  pity,"  said  he,  with  a  shrug.  "  Women  would 
suffer  a  good  deaUess — I  mean,  they  wouldn't  so  often  be 
the  victims  of  an  idiotic  delicacy — if,  with  them,  language 
didn't  stop  at  their  necks  and  begin  again  at  their  ankles." 

But  if  the  Academy  had  taught  him  to  drink  brand)",  he 
seemea  to  take  very  kindly  to  beer,  as  they  all  did,  until  the 
place  got  to  be,  as  one  of  them  said,  c'  like  Noah's  ark  in  a 
thunder-storm,  with  all  the  animals  roaring  and  kicking." 

One  man  proposed  to  play  pitch  and  toss  as  a  quiet  and 
intellectual  amusement ;  another  exclaimed  that  he  was  sick 
of  it ;  a  third  retorted  that  one  got  sick  of  playing  at  pitch 
and  toss  only  in  crossing  the  Channel ;  a  fourth  blundered 
about  the  initials  of  two  artists  named  Brown,  and  Heather- 


A   IH/.J)  GUESS.  iSr 

leigh  consoled  him  by  asking  how  the  recording  angel  was 
likelv  to  distinguish  among  the  Welsh  Joneses;  another  was 
deep  in  philosophy,  maintained  that  a  man  must  worship 
something,  and  that  a  man  who  cut  himself  off  from  all  dog- 
matic religions  must  take  to  the  worship  of  woman  ;  Heather- 
leigh  inquired  of  him  if  he  meant  that  irreligious  men  went 
in  for  the  woman  of  Babylon  ;  a  newspaper  man,  again,  was 
describing  a  tenantry  dinner  he  had  been  at  in  Kent,  and 
swearing  it  was  a  capital  one,  by  Gunter !  while  here  and  there 
were  serious  dissertations  on  the  future  of  the  new  school, 
coupled  with  the  question  when  England  would  gain  the  least 
bit  of  recognition  in  Continental  galleries. 

Heatherleigh  had  no  fewer  than  four  pictures  on  the  walls, 
and  he  had  other  two  in  his  studio,  all  of  which  he  purposed 
sending  into  the  Academy. 

"  Why  not  make  it  eight,"  I  asked  of  him,  "  and  be  an  R. 
A.  in  number,  if  not  in  name  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  eight  would  goad  the  hangmen  into  fury,  and 
they  might  turn  again  and  rend  me.  But  I  might  sell  one  or 
two  of  the  pictures  that  are  here  before  then,  and  these  I  shall 
not  send  in." 

Had  they  been  cheeses  he  could  not  have  treated  the 
question  in  a  more  matter-of-fact  way.  Indeed,  there  wns  no 
concealing  the  fact  that  Heatherleigh  regarded  the  Academy  as 
a  good  salesroom,  and  looked  forward  to  any  reputation'  he 
might  gain  by  his  new  pictures  chiefly  so  far  as  that  affected 
their  price.  He  was  far  too  honest  a  man  to  seek  to  hide  these 
views  of  his  ;  and  he  explained  them  with  a  simplicity  which  ad- 
mitted of  no  argument.  I  noticed,  also,  that  of  late  he  had  con- 
siderably increased  his  prices.  Formerly  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  treat  the  dealers  who  came  about  him  in  rather  a  cav- 
alier fashion,  bantering  them,  and  so  on ;  but  he  generally 
ended  by  letting  the  picture  go  for  whatever  they  offered,  and 
often,  as  I  saw,  much  beneath  its  value. 

"My  getting  seventy  pounds  instead  of  fifty  for  a  picture 
won't  better  the  quality  of  my  bottled  ale,  will  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  I  said  ;  "  but  it  might  secure  your  being  able  to  get 
bottled  ale  in  those  times  when  you  may  be  unable  to  work/' 

"  You  mean  that  I  ought  to  lay  up  for  a  rainy  day  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  daren't  begin,  Ted ;  for  I  know  the  consequences.  A 
man  who  has  just  what  money  he  wants,  with  the  chance  of 
getting  a  little  more  by  a  little  extra  work,  is  in  a  happy  posi- 
tion ;  but  the  man  who  saves  ever  so  little  pledges  himself  to 
a  draining  system.  He  is  never  satisfied  with  what  he  has 


1 82  KILMENY. 

saved.  Its  ignominious  smallness  haunts  him,  and  drives 
him  to  unnecessary  work,  and  unnecessary  economies.  God 
forbid  that  I  should  become  avaricious,  with  my  eyes  open, 
Ted !  " 

"You  talk  nonsense,"  I  said.  "There  is  no  reason  why 
should  become  avaricious.  But  when  you  have  an  extra  ten- 
pound  or  twenty-pound  note,  why  not  put  it  into  a  drawer  or 
into  a  bank,  rather  than  invent  some  useless  extravagance, 
as  you  do  now,  simply  to  get  rid  of  it?" 

"Then  the  ten-pound  note  would  look  shabby.  I  should 
say  to  myself,  *  I  must  get  a  hundred  pounds,  instead  of  eighty 
for  this  picture  from  Solomons.'  Solomons  comes  up.  We 
have  talked  about  eighty  pounds  ;  I  demand  a  hundred.  Sol- 
omons is  disgusted,  begins  to  worry  and  bargain  and  deprecate 
and  beseech.  Inwardly  I  cry  to  myself,  '  Good  God !  am  I 
become  a  cheesemonger,  that  I  must  make  my  living  thus  ? ' 
Ultimately  Solomons  gives  me  ninety  pounds ;  and  I  never 
see  him  afterwards  without  grudging  him  the  ten  pounds,  and 
I  never  see  my  small  savings  without  thinking,  with  a  pang, 
that  they  ought  to  be  ten  pounds  more.  My  dear  boy,  I  don't 
see  why  a  man  should  wilfully  make  his  life  a  burden  to  him. 
When  the  rainy  day  does  come,  I  shall  know  at  least  that  I 
have  enjoyed  the  sunshine.  I  don't  envy  the  men  who  sit  in- 
doors all  their  life,  disconsolately  patching  an  umbrella." 

Doubtless  he  meant  all  this  when  he  said  it;  for,  in  theory, 
it  was  an  exact  reflex  of  his  actual  life.  But  my  friend  was 
much  too  wise  a  man  to  hanker  after  consistency,  the  stolid 
virtue  of  the  Philister.  Without  a  word  as  to  what  had  led 
him  to  see  the  error  of  his  ways,  he  changed  his  whole  manner 
of  living.  I  have  already  spoken  of  his  increased  activity, 
which  at  length  developed  into  downright  hard  work.  And 
now  he  demanded  the  highest  price  for  his  work  that  he  was 
likely  to  get.  The  dealers  were  astonished  to  find  the  old, 
easy,  profitable  method  of  making  a  bargain  no  longer  pos- 
sible. They  did  not  go  off  in  a  rage,  as  one  might  have  ex- 
pected ;  for  Heatherleigh's  pictures  sold  readily.  He  had  a 
happy  quickness  in  the  selection  of  good  subjects  ;  he  had  a 
great  power  of  dramatic  and  forcible  grouping  and  treatment ; 
and  the  workmanship  of  his  pictures,  though  mannered,  was 
invariably  clever,  striking,  and  much  above  that  of  nine-tenths 
of  the  picture^  the  dealers  sold. 

At  this  little  exhibition  Mr.  Solomons  was  present — a  stout, 
good-looking  man,  much  resembling  in  appearance  and  man- 
ner a  Frankfort  merchant,  with  a  ruddy  face,  black  and  curly 
hair,  a  Jewish  set  of  features,  a  seal-skin  waistcoat,  and  a 


thick  gold  chain.     He  wore  a  ring  on  his  forefinger,  and  spoke 
with  a  slightly  German  accent. 

He  was  smoking  a  cigar  when  he  came  along  and  sat  down 
by  Heatherleigh. 

"  Have  you  sold  any  of  these  pictures  of  yours,  Mr.  Heath- 
erleigh ? " 

"  Not  one,  worshipful  sir." 

"  I  don't  think  you  had  any  of  them  begun  when  I  called 
at  your  place  last.  You  must  have  lost  no  time  over  them." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  offer  me  thirty  pounds  less  than  their 
worth  because  you  have  discovered  marks  of  haste  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  made  you  an  offer  at  all  yet — ' 

"And  mayn't,  you  would  say  ?  Don't.  Is  this  a  time  for 
buying  and  selling,  Mr.  Solomons  ?  We  are  disposed  to  be 
generous  to-night.  It  is  unsafe  to  make  bargains  with  the 
fumes  of  tobacco  in  the  brain." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Heatherleigh,  I  can  remember  when  you  treated 
us  poor  dealers  in  a  different  way — " 

"  And  what  return  did  you  ever  give  me — except  that  box 
of  cigars,  and  I  admit  they  were  of  the  best.  But  you  know, 
Mr.  Solomons,  cigars  are  of  no  use  to  us  poor  devils ;  they 
disappear  too  quickly.  Cigars  were  made  for  kings  and  pic- 
ture-dealers." 

"  I  don't  know  how  kings  are  faring,"  said  Mr.  Solomons, 
"  but  I  know  it  is  a  hard  time  for  picture-dealers.  People 
won't  buy  pictures.  The  state  of  business  in  the  city  is 
frightful,  and  it  tells  upon  us  directly.  We  can't  sell  a  pic- 
ture." 

"  What  a  merciful  arrangement  of  Providence  it  is  that  a 
man  who  can't  sell  a  picture  is  at  least  at  liberty  to  buy  one  ! 
But  haven't  you  always  been  saying  the  same  thing,  any  time 
these  thirty  years,  Mr.  Solomons?  It  is  only  a  habit  you 
have  got  into.  You  know,  you  wrill  see  a  professional  beggar, 
in  the  hottest  day  in  summer,  shivering  with  cold,  and  draw- 
ing his  rags  about  him,  simply  out  of  habit." 

"  It  is  an  ominous  comparison,  Mr.  Heatherleigh.  But 
there's  no  saying  what  may  befall  one,  if  one  has  to  come  be- 
tween the  artists  and  the  public,  submitting  to  the  wit  of  the 
one  and  the  indifference  of  the  other — " 

"  While  pocketing  the  money  of  both.  But  I  am  ashamed 
of  you,  Mr.  Solomons,  to  hear  you  talk  in  that  way,  consider- 
ing the  harvest  that  surrounds  you  on  every  side.  You  look 
like  a  farmer  standing  in  the  middle  of  his  sheaves,  and 
cursing  at  Providence.  However,  I  forgive  you — " 


iG4  KILMENY. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Solomons,  with  a  sneer,  indicative 
of  a  possible  change  in  his  temper. 

"  And,  although  this  is  not  a  time  for  buying  and  selling, 
as  I  said,  what  would  you  be  disposed  to  give  for  that  l  Kil- 
meny,'  which  is  the  work  of  my  friend  here  ?  Mr.  Ives — Mr. 
Solomons." 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  I  rather  like  that  picture  ;  there  is 
a  freshness  about  it  which  might  attract  a  purchaser.  Yet 
the  subject  is  not  a  popular  one,  you  know.  Well,  let  me  see, 
I  shouldn't  mind  venturing  fifty  pounds  upon  it." 

Heatherleigh  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 

"Why  I  will  give  him  £100  for  it  myself,  on  the  chance 
of  making  fifty  per  cent,  by  the  bargain." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Solomons,  coldly,  "  you  think  you  will  get 
for  that  picture  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  wish  you  may  get  it,"  said  Mr.  Solomons,  rising 
and  walking  off,  apparently  in  high  dudgeon. 

"  If  impudence  could  withstand  powder  and  shot,"  said 
Heatherleigh,  "  the  seed  of  Abraham  would  by  this  time  have 
changed  the  world  into  a  big  Judea.  But  don't  imagine  that 
he  is  much  offended.  Solomon  never  quarrels  with  his  bread 
and  butter ;  and  that  is  the  position  in  which  we  stand  to 
him  at  present." 

"There  is  something  unnatural,  it  appears  to  me,"  I  said, 
"in  having  the  relations  of  dealer  and  artist  reversed  in  that 
way.  The  dealer  ought  to  be  the  patron ;  you,  the  artist, 
ought  to  be  humble  and  grateful — " 

"  So  I  was  at  one  time,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  Nor  do  I 
think  that  I  took  any  advantage  when  I  got  the  upper  hand. 
I  have  let  them  off  very  easily — that  is,  hitherto.  Now  I 
mean  to  wake  them  up — " 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  I  have  grown  avaricious." 

"  Why  have  you  grown  avaricious  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  getting  old,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 

On  our  way  home  (I  had  already  remained  out  much  longer 
than  an  invalid  ought  to  have  done),  we  talked  more  of  this 
and  of  other  matters,  as  we  went  up  by  Regent's  Park,  in  the 
cold,  clear  night. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  that  if  you  had  been  left 
to  yourself,  without  the  advantage  of  my  sage  counsel  and  ex- 
perience, you  would  have  given  the  picture  to  Solomons  for 
fifty  pounds  ? " 

"  No,  nor  for  £500  either,"  I  said. 


.]/r  rATRux.  185 

"  Htii  why?" 

"Fancy  a  Frankfort  Jew  becoming  the  owner  of — " 

"  Of  a  portrait  of  Hester  Burnham." 

-  Exactly." 

\\V  walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence  ;  and  I  suppose 
Ileatherleigh  had  been  running  over  all  sorts  of  absurd  de- 
ductions in  his  mind,  for  he  said,  just  as  we  were  nearing 
home — 

"  I  once  was  very  nearly  thinking  that  Bonnie  Lesley  had 
fallen  in  love  with  you,  but  now  I  begin  to  think  that  you  have 
fallen  in  love  with  Hester  Burnham.  The  situation  would 
be  very  romantic — but,  for  you,  very  uncomfortable,  just  at 
this  particular  time  of  day." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MY  PATRON. 

NEXT  morning  Polly  Whistler  came  up  to  see  us,  and  she 
had  no  sooner  entered  the  room,  breathless  and  excited,  with 
a  fine  color  in  her  pretty  cheeks  and  gladness  in  her  bright 
eyes,  than  she  cried  out — 

"  Oh,  Ted,  do  you  know  that  I  have  met  three  different 
people  this  morning  whose  first  talk  was  about  your  picture  ! 
They  are  all  astonished — you  are  going  to  turn  the  Academy 
upside  down — and  I  declare,  when  I  met  the  last  of  the  three, 
and  heard  what  he  had  to  say,  I  was  near  crying  for  fair  hap- 
piness. You  know  I've  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it,  Ted — I — • 
I  beg  your  pardon — " 

"  If  you  call  me  Mr.  Ives  again,  Polly,  as  you  did  when  I 
came  back  from  Bucks,  I  shall  order  you  out  for  instant  exe- 
cution." 

"  Because  I  begged  of  you  not  to  alter  it ;  and  I  knew  what 
they  would  say  of  it — " 

"  And  you  helped  me  with  it  all  through,  Polly.  It  is  too 
true.  I  must  give  up  to  you  three  fourths  of  all  the  honor 
and  glory — " 

"  Though  1  could  not  understand,  even  at  the  time,  how 
you  managed  to  finish  it,  painting  from  me,  without  putting  a 
trace  of  me  into  it.  Mr.  Heatherleigh  says  you  will  only  be 
able  to  paint  one  face  all  your  life — " 

"  Isn't  it  worth  giving  up  a  lifetime  to  paint,  Polly? " 

"  Perhaps  it  is,  but   that  wouldn't  pay.     But  really,  Ted, 


1 86  KILMENY. 

I'm  very,  very,  very  glad,  and  I  hope  I'm  the  very  first  to 
wish  you  joy,  for  our  old  acquaintance'  sake,  you  know." 

And  the  kind-hearted  girl  grew  almost    serious  with  the 
earnestness  of  her  congratulations. 

You  would  scarcely  have  known  Polly  now,  so  much  had 
she  changed  during  the  past  eighteen  months.  The  old  frank 
manner  was  still  there,  with  the  bright  smile,  the  ready  tongue, 
and  fearless  speech ;  but  Polly  had  grown  suddenly  genteel 
in  her  dress.  In  the  old  days,  it  must  be  admitted,  she  had 
a  trick  of  running  to  and  from  her  home,  wearing,  to  save 
trouble,  the  shawl  in  which  she  had  '  sat '  to  this  or  the  other 
artist — that  is  to  say,  when  the  shawl  belonged  to  her  own 
considerable  stock  of  properties.  I  have  met  her  in  Granby 
Street,  running  home  in  the  dusk,  with  the  most  wonderful 
articles  of  attire  on  her  back  ;  and  not  unfrequently  with  her 
shawl  wrapped  around  her  head  in  place  of  a  bonnet.  Now 
all  that  was  over.  Under  my  mother's  tutelage  and  millinery 
aid,  Polly  dressed  like  a  young  lady — very  plainly,  it  is  true, 
but  very  neatly.  Her  own  mother  had  at  length  been  pre- 
vailed upon  to  go  to  Greenwich,  on  a  pension  granted  her  by 
her  daughter ;  and  Polly's  spirits,  never  of  the  lowest,  were 
now  remarkably  high  in  consequence.  Nor  did  her  efforts  at 
self-improvement  stop  with  her  change  of  attire.  My  mother 
had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  girl,  and  was  instructing  her 
in  all  manner  of  delicate  housewifely  arts.  There  never  was 
a  more  willing  pupil,  there  has  seldom  been  a  cleverer  one. 
Quick  in  the  "  uptake,"  as  the  Scotch  say,  she  was  nimble 
with  her  fingers,  and  untiring  in  her  perseverance.  My 
mother  was  delighted  with  the  duties  of  instructress,  as  most 
women  are ;  and,  not  content  with  teaching  Polly  the  secrets 
of  womanly  lore,  she  took  to  giving  her  lessons  in  French. 
My  mother's  pronunciation  was  not  very  good — how  many 
years  was  it  since  she,  a  clergyman's  daughter,  had  acquired 
the  language  ? — but  it  was  good  enough  for  Polly,  who  soon 
began  to  be  able  to  read  French  with  tolerable  ease.  In 
other  directions  her  efforts  at  self-improvement  were  equally 
strenuous  and  successful ;  and  it  must  be  remembered  that 
her  acquirements  were  immediately  tested  by  the  ready  con- 
versation she  held  with  all  the  people  who  surrounded  her. 
The  information  possessed  by  artists  is,  as  a  rule,  remarkably 
many-sided  ;  and  as  Polly  did  not  hesitate  for  a  moment  in 
revealing  the  bent  of  her  studies — especially  in  literature- 
she  had  the  benefit  of  a  good  deal  of  extempore  and  sugges 
tive  criticism  from  the  ready-witted  and  intelligent  men  with 
whom  she  passed  most  of  her  forenoons. 


MY  /v/yw,r.  187 


Some  people  would  say  that  a  girl  of  quick  and  sensitive 
nature,  aiming  at  self-culture,  should,  as  a  preliminary  step, 
have  relinquished  this  calling  by  which  she  got  her  living. 
That  was  a  point  which  never  occurred  to  either  her  or  my 
mother.  These  two  simple-minded  women  were  too  pure  and 
innocent  to  see  anything  wrong  in  a  girl  suffering  her  portrait 
to  be  daily  painted,  especially  as  her  patrons  were  a  small 
number  of  men  who  were  well  known  to  her  and  to  each 
other.  Indeed,  Polly,  with  her  bright  ways  and  her  clever 
speech,  was  the  common  friend  of  that  small  community,  and 
there  was  not  one  of  them  who  would  not  have  directly  and 
courageously  broken  the  law  of  his  country  in  order  to  admin- 
ister a  conclusive  thrashing  to  any  stranger  who  should  dare 
to  insult  her.  To  every  one  it  seemed  a  matter  of  course  that 
she  should  remain  in  her  old  calling,  except  to  Heat-herleigh. 

"It  is  a  shame  that  a  girl  like  that  should  be  a  model,"  he 
said  to  me,  one  evening,  after  a  fit  of  gloomy  meditation. 

"  Why,  what  harm  does  it  do  to  her  ?  " 

"  No  harm,  truly.  The  girl  could  walk  through  anything, 
consort  with  any  kind  of  people,  and  yet  preserve  that  fresh- 
ness of  character  which  springs  from  her  fearless  honesty." 

"  If  that  is  so,  why  should  she  throw  aside  an  occupation 
which  is  not  arduous,  which  is  well  paid,  and  which  she  seems 
to  enjoy  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  seems  a  shame  that  she  should  be  called  a  model, 
when  you  know  what  sort  of  women  bear  the  same  name." 

"  But  that  principle  would  make  every  calling  in  life  dishon- 
orable. Should  a  man  be  ashamed  to  be  called  a  lawyer  be- 
cause there  are  some  lawyers  who  are  scoundrels  ?  Should 
a  woman  be  ashamed  to  be  called  a  woman  because  there 
are  many  women  who  are  drunken,  perverted,  and  vicious  ?  " 

Heatherleigh  did  not  answer,  but  he  kicked  away  his  land- 
lady's cat  from  the  fender  (ordinarily,  it  was  granted  every 
liberty  in  the  room,  including  the  inspection  of  his  breakfast- 
table),  and  sucked  his  wooden  pipe  fiercely. 

However,  Polly  knew  nothing  of  this  discussion,  and  re- 
mained as  she  had  been,  perfectly  satisfied  with  herself,  and 
her  friends,  and  her  manner  of  living.  I  never  saw  a  more 
contented  or  happy  creature. 

Towards  the  appointed  hour  I  made  my  way  down  to  West- 
minster, and  to  the  House  of  Commons.  When  I  arrived,  the 
bell  had  just  rung  for  a  division,  and  the  nondescript  loung- 
ers who  were  hanging  about  were  ignominiously  swept  into 
the  corridor,  to  study  the  ill-lighted  frescos.  When  the  stir 
war,  over,  and  communication  again  established,  I  sent  in  my 


iSS  KILMEXY. 

card  to  Mr.  Webb,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  came  out,  hastily 
apologizing,  in  a  nervous  sort  of  way,  for  his  having  been  de- 
tained. I  accompanied  him  along  another  corridor  and  down 
some  steps,  until  we  arrived  at  a  clingy  and  melancholy  apart- 
ment, with  small  windows  fronting,  but  not  allowing  you  to 
look  out  on,  the  river,  which  he  said  was  the  smoking-room. 
In  the  partial  dusk  of  this  gloomy  chamber  one  or  two  men, 
far  apart  and  silent,  sat  and  smoked  disconsolately  over  a 
newspaper,  there  being  nothing  to  disturb  the  silence  beyond 
the  muffled  throbbing  of  the  steamboat-paddles  outside. 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  if  you  smoke — let  me  give  you  a  cigar," 
said  Mr.  Webb,  as  we  sat  down.  "  You  must  have  consumed 
many  a  pipe  over  your  *  Kilmeny.'  " 

"There  is  not  much  work  in  the  picture,"  I  said;  "but  it 
was  painted  under  great  disadvantages.  I  am  merely  an  ap- 
prentice as  yet,  and,  simply  through  my  want  of  technical 
education,  have  to  spend  hours  over  what  an  experienced 
man  would  do  in  a  few  minutes." 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  "and  I  had  some  thought  of 
speaking  to  you  upon  the  point.  I  should  say  it  was  most 
important  for  you  to  get  some  such  practical  education,  under 
a  competent  master,  just  at  this  period  of  your  career,  before 
you  settle  down  into  a  mannerism  which  may  keep  you  crude 
and  unfinished  all  your  life.  I  have  been  much  interested  in 
your  picture  ;  and  I  should  not  offer  you  the  advice  if  I  did 
not  think  you  were  improvable." 

This  he  said  with  a  slight  smile  ;  but  most  of  his  hesitating 
speech  had  been  pointed  at  the  corner  of  the  table  before  us, 
and  had  been  given  out  in  sharp,  quick,  detached  phrases. 

"Where  have  you  studied  ?  " 

"  Nowhere,  except  under  Heatherleigh.  Then  I  have  been 
a  pretty  constant  attender  at  our  life-class — " 

"  Ah,  I  know.  May  I  ask  if  you  have  any  sort  of  plans 
for  the  future  ?  " 

"  None,  except  a  wish  to  get  wholly  out  of  England  for  a 
time,  that  I  may  get  away  from  certain  influences  I  dislike, 
and — and — and,  generally  speaking,  find  my  level." 

"  That  is  good,  very  good,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "  but  vague. 
Don't  think  me  impertinent  if  I  ask  further — do  you  depend 
on  painting  for  a  living  ?  " 

"  Not  wholly.  I  have  a  small  income ;  but  if  I  left  Eng- 
land, I  should  have  to  le-ave  pretty  nearly  the  whole  of  it  for 
my  mother." 

"  You  will  find  living  abroad  very  cheap.  What  do  you 
say  to  Munich  ?  It  is  the  cheapest  town  in  Germany.  It  is 


MY  TATROX.  189 

the  richest  in  point  of  art-treasures.  Every  facility  is  j;iveu 
you  for  study  ;  and  I  have  an  excellent  friend,  Professor 
Kunzen,  whose  name  you  may  have  heard  of  in  connection 
with  the  discussion  about  the  Nibelungen  frescos.  Kunzen 
has  some  students  ;  and  an  introduction  from  me  would  give 
you  at  once  an  instructor  and  a  friend." 

To  leave  England  had  long  been  a  dream  of  mine,  but  now 
that  it  was  put  bluntly  and  practically  before  me,  I  involun- 
tarily hesitated.  To  leave  England,  and  live  so  long  in  a 
foreign  land  that  the  old  places  should  grow  strange  to  me — 
that,  coming  back,  I  should  look  at  the  great  chestnuts  of 
the  avenue  at  Burnham,  and  scarcely  know  them  again  ! 

"  You  can  turn  the  project  over  in  your  mind,"  he  said ; 
"  it  is  worth  your  attention,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  give  you 
any  little  assistance  I  can.  You  may  depend  on  Kunzen. 
But  to  our  present  business.  You  said  you  had  not  sold 
«  Kilmeny  ? '  " 

"  I  have  not  sold  it  yet." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  keep  by  your  resolution  not  to  sell 
it?" 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  will  tell  you  frankly  how  the  matter 
stands.  You  judge  by  my  being  here  that  I  am  willing  to 
sell  the  picture  ;  but  I  have  come  mainly  because  you  were 
good  enough  to  ask  me.  I  would  rather  not  sell  the  picture. 
Don't  imagine  I  say  so  to  tempt  you  to  offer  me  a  big  price. 
I  would  rather  not  sell  it,  for  the  reason  that  I  told  you.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  want  the  money,  as  I  have  been  earning 
nothing  for  some  months,  through  an  accident  I  suffered." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  glancing  at  my 
arm,  which  was  in  a  sling,  "  was  it  you  who  got  shot  in- 
stead of  Hester — " 

"  Not  instead  of  Miss  Burnham,"  I  said,  "  for  the  ball 
might  not  have  hit  her  at  all ;  but  there  is  no  mistake  about 
my  having  been  shot." 

"  This  is  extraordinary — very  extraordinary,"  he  said. 

I  saw  him  finger  the  card,  which  he  still  held  in  his  hand. 
He  had  evidently  forgotten  my  name,  and  was  anxious  to  re- 
fresh his  memory,  but  politeness  prevented  his  doing  so,  and 
so  I  was  probably  Mr.  Gyves  or  Mr.  Jervis  to  him  for  the 
time  being. 

"  Very  extraordinary.  My  dear  sir,  we  owe  very  much  to 
you.  I  beg  you  will  forgive  my  not  having  noticed  the  simi- 
larity of  the  name,  which  is  perfectly  familiar  to  me — " 

What  a  good-natured  fib  that  was ! 

" — and  I  hope  our  acquaintanceship  will  notecase  with  this 


190  KILMENY. 

matter  of  business.  How  stupid  of  Heatherleigh  not  to  tell 
me  !  However,  I  must  consider  the  picture  mine ;  and  you 
shall  put  your  own  price  upon  it — " 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  said,  "  we  are  still  discussing  business. 
Heatherleigh  told  me  you  knew  the  value  of  a  picture  better 
than  any  man  of  his  acquaintance.  I  know  nothing  of  it, 
and  so — " 

"  And  so  I  must  make  the  offer  ?  Good,  I  will  give  you 
^150  for  the  picture." 

I  looked  at  him  with  amazement.  There  was  on  his  face 
none  of  that  bland  look  of  patronage  with  which  a  man  gen- 
erally exhibits  his  generosity.  Indeed,  the  cold  gray  face 
was  quite  business-like  and  calm. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Webb,"  I  said,  very  much 
inclined  to  laugh,  "but  I  would  rather  not  be  paid  by  you 
for  having  pushed  your  cousin  out  of  danger." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  said,  "  how  can  you  imagine  such  a 
thing !  On  my  soul  and  honor,  I  would  have  bidden  that 
sum  for  it  at  a  public  sale,  partly,  of  course,  because  it  is  so 
quaint  a  transfiguration  of  Hester's  face.  If  you  think  the 
price  too  high,  name  your  own,  but  I  tell  you  that  you  wrong 
yourself  in  taking  less." 

"  Suppose  it  is  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy,  will  you 
give  me  whatever  is  offered  for  it  by  anybody  ?  " 

"  I  will  give  you  £20  more  than  the  highest  offer.  Is  it  a 
bargain  ? " 


'to' 

"  Yes." 


"And  I  hope  that  our  acquaintanceship  will  not  terminate 
with  this  matter  of  business.  Lady  Louisa  will  be  delighted, 
I  am  sure,  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

So  we  parted,  and  I  got  out  again  into  the  roar  of  Westmins- 
ter. In  all  that  hurrying  crowd  of  people,  there  was  no  one 
who  suffered  such  pangs  of  remorse  and  shame  as  I  did  at  that 
moment.  I  suppose  when  we  are  too  well  off  we  exaggerate 
minor  causes  of  worry  until  we  reach  the  common  level  of 
discontent ;  or  it  may  be  that  some  people  are  morbidly  sen- 
sitive on  particular  points ;  but,  at  all  events,  I  had  no 
sooner  got  out  of  that  dull  smoking-room  than  I  felt  wretched 
and  guilty.  I  had  sold  my  honor  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  I 
had  gone  down  to  meet  Mr.  Webb  in  an  irresolute  frame  of 
mind,  tempted  both  ways,  and  yet  hoping  I  should  cling  to 
the  right  side.  I  had  succumbed  to  the  temptation,  and, 
through  the  dusk  of  the  afternoon,  my  eyes  seemed  to  wan- 
der up  to  that  exhibition-room  where  "  Kilmeny  "  stood,  and 
looked  out  upon  me  with  reproach  in  her  mystic  face. 


MY  rATA'0.\.  191 

I  envied  the  jolly  policemen  who  were  cracking  jokes  witli 
each  other  at  the  corner  of  Parliament  Street,  and  the  burly 
omnibus  drivers  with  their  ready  fun,  and  the  honest  men 
and  women  who  were  going  home,  after  a  good  day's  labor, 
to  their  comfortable  chimney-corners.  Finally,  I  walked 
straight  up  to  the  exhibition- rooms. 

Most  of  the  pictures  had  been  left  there,  so  that  the 
owners  might  send  them  directly  on  to  the  Royal  Academy. 
I  had  "  Kilmeny  "  taken  down  and  put  into  a  cab  ;  then  I 
drove  home  and  carried  the  picture  up-stairs  to  my  own 
room. 

What  should  I  do?  On  the  one  hand  £150,  or  some  ap- 
proximate sum,  would  be  an  opportune  nest-egg  to  leave  with 
my  mother,  if  I  were  to  go  to  Germany.  Then,  if  this  little 
girl  with  the  wondering  face  were  to  get  into  the  Academy 
Exhibition,  would  not  people  talk  of  her,  and  might  not  the 
critics  be  kind  to  a  beginner,  and  deal  charitably  with  a  first 
effort  ?  That  was  a  sore  temptation.  I  sat  and  imagined 
all  the  possible  scenes  that  might  arise  with  this  "  Kilmeny  " 
of  mine,  whom  I  had  grown  to  love,  hanging  on  the  Academy 
walls.  Would  not  Bonnie  Lesley  come,  and  let  her  beautiful 
large  eyes  light  on  it,  and  would  she  not  say  something  gen- 
erous about  it  ?  My  mother,  too,  would  see  it  and  be  glad. 
Perhaps — but  I  dare  not  think  of  Hester  Burnham  walking 
up  to  this  picture,  and  reading  all  the  tell-tale  meaning  of  it. 

It  was  a  pretty  dream — far  more  fascinating  than  any  one 
can  imagine  who  has  not  labored  carefully  and  lovingly  over 
a  work  of  art,  and  then  sees  it  ready  to  be  sent  abroad  for 
recognition,  with  all  the  halo  of  possible  success  about  it. 
And  what  if  it  should  be  successful — if  people  should  praise 
it? 

I  turned  and  looked  at  the  calm,  strange  face  ;  and  now 
the  likeness  seemed  startling.  It  was  Hester  Burnham  who 
stood  there,  with  the  calm,  kindly  eyes ;  and  she  seemed  to 
say,  "  I  have  been  with  you  many  a  still  and  silent  day,  in 
this  very  room,  and  we  had  got  to  know  each  other.  We 
were  friends.  And  now  you  would  make  money  by  the  re- 
sults of  this  intimacy  ;  and  you  would  have  people  talk  of  me, 
and  idle  crowds  stare  at  me." 

"  Never  with  my  will,"  said  I,  aloud. 

I  caught  up  a  penknife  that  was  lying  on  the  table — I  was 
in  too  great  a  hurry  to  answer  this  mute  reproach  to  think  of 
taking  the  picture  from  the  back  of  the  frame — and  run  the 
keen  edge  through  the  canvas,  up  both  sides,  and  across  both 
ends,  leaving  only  a  narrow  strip  adhering  to  the  frame. 


192  KILMENY. 

Then  I  rolled  up  the  picture  and  put  it  in  a  drawer,  and  sat 
down  in  the  dusk,  cold,  trembling,  and  contented. 

The  dusk  deepened  and  grew  dark.  But  before  my  eyes 
there  came  a  series  of  lambent  visions — all  the  bitter  sug- 
gestions of  what  might  have  been.  Bitter  enough  it  was  to 
look  at  these  things  ;  and  yet  I  felt  a  certain  austere  sense  of 
satisfaction  with  myself  which  was  indeed  a  sort  of  grim 
happiness. 

I  was  withdrawn  from  these  reveries  by  the  sound  of  voices. 
Polly  and  Heatherleigh  had  both  chanced  to  visit  us  that 
evening,  within  a  few  minutes  of  each  other.  So  I  went  down 
to  meet  them,  bold  and  comfortable. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Ted?"  said  my  mother; 
"you  are  ghastly  white." 

"It  is  joy,  mother;  I  have  been  offered  ^150  for  the 
picture." 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty !  "  said  Polly,  with  her  eyes  widely 
open.  "  Mayn't  I  see  it  now  ? — you  know  it  was  not  quite 
finished  when  I  last  saw  it." 

"  It  is  down  in  the  Sumner  Exhibition-rooms,"  said  Heath- 
erleigh." 

"  No,"  said  my  mother,  "  it  is  up-stairs.  I  saw  Ted  bring 
it  in  this  afternoon." 

"  Then  I  must  see  it,"  cried  Polly.  "  Shall  I  go  up,  or  will 
you  bring  it  down  ? " 

Determined  that  Heatherleigh  should  meanwhile  know 
nothing  of  what  had  happened,  I  told  Polly  to  come  up-stairs 
with  me.  I  lit  a  lamp,  and  went  with  her.  When  we  entered 
the  room  I  went  forward  to  the  table,  and  lifted  the  frame, 
with  its  margin  of  canvas. 

"  There,  Polly,  what  do  you  think  of  *  Kilmeny '  now  ?  " 

She  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  in  blank  wonder,  and  then  a 
sudden  expression  of  alarm  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Ted,  what  have  you  done  ?  "  she  cried. 

I  sat  down  in  the  dimly  lighted  room,  before  the  empty 
frame,  and  told  her  the  whole  history  of  the  case.  I  explained, 
as  well  as  I  could,  the  necessity  which  had  driven  me  to  aban- 
don all  the  hopes  I  had  formed  about  "  Kilmeny."  When  I 
had  finished  I  looked  up,  a  little  surprised  that  Polly  had 
nothing  to  say,  either  by  way  of  agreement  or  condemnation. 
I  found  that  the  girl  had  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  I 
fancied  she  was  crying. 


T:iE  ROYAI.  ACADEMY.  193 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE    ROYAL   ACADEMY. 

ONCE  the  thing  definitely  clone  and  disposed  of,  I  was  much 
more  contented.  I  bore  with  equanimity  the  silent  reproach 
of  my  mother,  and  the  fiercer  indignation  of  Heatherleigh. 

"  You  deserve  to  be  hanged,"  he  said.  "  I  never  saw  such 
accursed  pride  in  any  one.  You  were  not  born  a  duke." 

"  Don't  you  know,"  said  I,  "  that  Miss  Burnham  and  I  made 
up  our  old  misunderstanding,  and  became  almost  friends 
down  there  ?  And  what  if  I  had  gone  and  publicly  exhibited 
her,  and  sold  her  portrait,  and  tried  to  gain  a  reputation 
through  the  sweetness  of  her  face  ?  " 

"  Confound  it !  "  was  all  he  said.  Then  he  added,  "  I  fan- 
cied we  were  going  into  the  Academy  together — that  we 
should  celebrate  the  varnishing  day  together — that  we  should 
run  the  gauntlet  of  the  critics  together.  I  expected  great 
things  from  the  picture.  I  had  told  people  about  it.  I  ex- 
pected more  from  it  than  ever  I  told  you,  because  I  wanted 
the  reception  it  was  sure  to  get  to  be  a  surprise  to  you.  But 
you  have  always  been  like  that — morbidly  sensitive,  wayward, 
extravagant.  Did  you  never  think  of  Bonnie  Lesley  coming 
to  see  it  ? " 

*'  Of  course  I  did.  I  have  enjoyed  in  imagination  all  sorts 
of  visits  and  ail  sorts  of  praises,  which  I  should  never  have 
enjoyed  in  reality.  But  that  is  not  the  question,  Heatherleigh. 
You  talk  as  if  I  had  had  any  option  in  the  matter.  I  tell  you 
that,  rather  than  have  sold  Miss  Burnham's  portrait  to  that 
Jew,  as  you  suggested,  I  would  let  him  pull  my  teeth  out  one 
by  one." 

"  That  would  have  been  reversing  the  order  of  nature.  It 
was  the  Christians  who  pulled  the  Jews'  teeth  out,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  spirit  of  the  New  Testament.  Why,  do  you 
know  who  proposed  to  be  a  purchaser  ?  " 

"  Who  ? " 

"Bonnie  Lesley  herself.  She  told  me  privately  that  she 
meant  to  offer  you,  without  your  knowing  her  name,  a  hand- 
some sum,  in  order  to  give  you  confidence  in  yourself.  She 
says  you  will  never  be  an  artist  until  you  gain  some  artificial 
belief  in  yourself." 

"  What  did  you  answer  ? " 

"  Only  what  I  have  said  to  yourself — that  there  is  nothing 
to  equal  your  modesty  except  your  pride." 


194  KILMENY. 

I  pointed  out  to  them  all,  however,  that  there  was  no  use 
crying  over  spilled  milk ;  and  I  looked  forward  with  anxiety 
to  the  opening  of  the  Academy  Exhibition  merely  for  the 
sake  of  Heatherleigh.  Before  the  varnishing  day  arrived  he 
had  already  ascertained  that  four  of  his  pictures  were  hung — 
a  very  tolerable  number  for  a  man  who  had  never  cultivated 
the  acquaintance  of  the  Academicians.  On  the  morning  of 
the  varnishing  day  he  called  upon  me. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  down  with  me." 

"  They  won't  let  me  in  :  I  am  not  an  exhibitor." 

"  Worse  luck,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  think  I  can  arrange  about 
it." 

So  I  agreed  to  accompany  him.  There  would  be  no  morti- 
fication in  being  turned  away,  as  there  would  have  been  had 
I  been  a  rejected  contributor. 

On  our  way  down,  he  said — 

"  Did  you  cut  your  picture  all  to  pieces  ? " 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  it  ? " 

"  Keep  it  for  myself  as  a  portrait.  I  am  going  to  Germany 
soon  :  I  shall  take  it  with  me." 

"  Why  should  you  take  a  portrait  of  Hester  Burnham  with 
you  ? " 

"  I  hope  to  take  portraits  of  all  my  friends  with  me." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  have  asked  Bonnie  Lesley  for  her 
portrait?" 

"  Well,  no ;  but  I  mean  to  do  so." 

"  Why  don't  you  thank  me  for  reminding  you  ? " 

He  smiled  as  he  said  this,  and  yet  I  did  not  care  to  inquire 
what  he  meant,  for  my  thoughts  were  running  on  this  great 
collection  of  pictures  we  were  going  to  see,  where  my  poor 
"Kilmeny,"  I  fondly  thought,  might  perhaps  have  had  a 
place. 

The  Academy  Exhibition  was  then  in  the  National  Gallery. 
I  ascended  the  broad  stone  steps  without  much  hope  of  being 
able  to  gain  admission.  Heatherleigh  went  up  to  the  man 
who  was  passing  people  in,  and  I  fancied  there  was  a  quiet 
look  of  intelligence  on  his  face.  He  nodded  to  Heatherleigh. 
There  was  scarcely  a  word  said,  and  in  a  second  or  two  I 
found  myself  inside  the  entrance-hall. 

"  Have  you  brought  no  colors  with  you  ? "  said  Heather- 
leigh. 

"  No  ;  why  ? " 

"  I  should  have  let  you  touch  up  one  or  two  of  my  pictures, 
to  pass  the  time." 


/7/A   A' OVAL  AC  ADI-',. MY.  195 

"  I  thought  you  never  went  through  the  farce  of  touching 
up  or  varnishing  in  the  rooms?" 

"  Neither  do  I ;  but  it  might  amuse  you." 

So  we  went  up-stairs.  In  the  first  room  there  were  two  of 
lleatherleigh's  pictures;  one  had  an  excellent  place;  the 
other  was  "floored,"  and  in  a  corner. 

"  That  leaves  me  in  an  equable  frame  of  mind,"  he  said, 
'*  so  far  as  this  room  is  concerned.  Ha  !  what  is  this  I  see  ! 
They  have  given  me  a  good  place  !  " 

He  was  passing  through  the  door  as  he  uttered  these  words. 
I  could  only  look  vaguely  into  the  next  room.  There  were 
several  artists  lounging  about,  one  or  two  of  them  pretending 
to  touch  up  their  pictures ;  and  one  gentleman,  mounted  on 
very  high  steps,  was  carefully  varnishing  a  remarkably  small 
work  which,  it  was  evident,  was  never  likely  to  be  seen  by 
anybody  after  his  own  eyes  were  withdrawn. 

Heatherleigh  turned  to  me. 

"I  am  going  to  blindfold  you,  and  lead  you  up  to  my 
*  Lady  Teazle,'  that  you  may  be  astonished — " 

But  it  was  too  late.  There,  at  the  head  of  the  room,  from 
out  of  the  wilderness  of  brilliant  colors  and  gold  frames, 
looked  the  calm  face  of  "  Kilmeny  ! "  The  wall  seemed  to 
dance  before  my  eyes ;  the  yellow  frames  became  a  misty 
spider's-web  of  gold,  the  delicate  lines  crossing  and  inter- 
weaving; and  Kilmeny  looked  like  a  phantom  amid  these 
bewildering,  moving  splatches  of  color.  It  was  like  one  of 
those  half-conscious  dreams  in  which  you  see  the  face  of  one 
who  is  dead,  or  as  good  as  dead  to  you,  and  you  quite  well 
know  that  it  is  impossible  the  beautiful  face  should  be  so 
near  you.  I  walked  up  to  the  picture  in  a  kind  of  stupor ; 
and  met  the  gaze  of  the  eyes  that  I  knew.  The  picture  did 
not  melt  into  mist.  I  looked  round  about  it,  and  the  other 
pictures  were  stable. 

"  You  are  lucky,"  said  a  strange  voice  at  my  shoulder,  and, 
turning,  I  saw  one  of  my  companions  of  the  life-class,  a  man 
who  had  just  returned  from  Brittany.  "  Your  first  picture  in 
the  Academy,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  with  some  fear  that  I  was  lying ;  and  that 
"  Kilmeny  "  would  suddenly  vanish,  and  be  replaced  by  the 
real  picture  which  ought  to  be  there. 

"  Don't  look  so  scared,"  said  Heatherleigh.  "  It  isn't  a 
ghost,  although  many  people  will  fancy  that  Kilmeny,  with 
her  wonderful  face,  has  just  come  out  of  the  land  of  spirits, 
with  a  cloud  of  impalpable  dreams  around  her.  Don't  you 
think  so,  Jackson  ?  It  is  the  most  visionary  face  that  I  have 


196  KILMENY. 

ever  seen  painted.  Would  you  believe  that  Ives  wanted  to 
keep  it  at  home — nay,  had  kept  it  at  home,  and  that  it  is  here 
against  his  will  ?  " 

With  that  he  turned  to  me. 

"  Ted,  your  mother  and  I  did  it.  She  found  the  picture 
out ;  I  carried  it  off  and  put  it  in  another  frame — I'll  trouble 
you  for  £6  los.  when  I  come  to  pay  Weavle's  bill — and  here 
you  are.  You  won't  be  such  a  fool  as  to  carry  off  the  picture 
now — indeed,  you  dare  not,  for  the  Academicians  would  have 
your  life.  And  look  at  the  place  they  have  given  you — it  is 
as  good  as  a  notice  in  the  Times" 

Now  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  man  on  the  top  of  the  tall 
steps  was  a  great  friend  of  mine.  I  hoped  his  picture  was 
well-painted;  I  compassionated  him  in  that  it  had  been 
"  skied ; "  I  trusted  he  had  pictures  elsewhere.  The  other 
men,  too,  about  the  rooms — did  they  not  suddenly  assume  a 
kindly  expression  ?  I  was  now  a  fellow-laborer  of  theirs  ; 
whereas,  when  I  entered  the  place,  I  was  -an  outcast  and  a 
stranger.  I  hoped  they  had  all  painted  good  pictures ;  that 
the  public  would  be  kind  to  them  all ;  that  they  were  all  "  on 
the  line."  Yet  it  was  clear  from  many  of  their  faces  that  it 
was  possible  to  be  above  or  below  the  line,  and  still  be  happy. 

"What  do  you  say,  then?"  asked  Heatherleigh,  a  little 
timidly. 

"  Now  it  is  done,  I  am  glad  you  have  done  it." 

"  And  I  promise  to  tell  Hester  Burnham  all  about  it,  and 
that  it  was  my  doing." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  she  will  come  here,"  I  said,  absently,  for 
I  fancied  I  could  see  her  walk  up  to  the  picture. 

"  Undoubtedly.  And  Bonnie  Lesley  is  coming  to  buy  *  Kil- 
meny/  I  have  told  her  so  much  about  it  that  she  is  jealous  ; 
and  I  fancy,  so  soon  as  she  has  acquired  possession  of  the 
picture,  she  will  cut  it  to  pieces  more  effectually  than  you  did/' 

"  She  will  have  some  difficulty  in  becoming  the  owner,  as 
I  promised  to  give  it  to  Mr.  Webb,  if  it  got  into  the  Academy, 
for  £20  beyond  what  anybody  might  offer  for  it." 

"  It  would  be  no  bad  plan,  then,  to  get  Bonnie  Lesley  to 
offer  ^"500  for  it.  Of  course  you  must  take  off  a  few  pounds 
in  consideration  of  the  picture  having  been  reduced  in  size 
by  a  couple  of  inches.  Ted,  my  boy,  1  consider  myself  your 
best  friend,  and  hereby  invite  myself  to  dine  with  you  at 
Greenwich,  now  that  the  whitebait  have  come  in." 

We  had  a  walk  around  the  rooms ;  but  I  fancied  the  eyes 
of  Kilmeny  followed  me,  and  they  were  not  quite  so  reproach- 
ful as  they  had  been. 


/./•;/;•  ii'OML!  197 

"  Xn\v  that  I  am  in  for  it,"  said  I  to  Heatherleigh,  "  I  shall 
make  the  best  or  the  worst  of  it.  Could  you  get  to  know 
when  Miss  Burnham  is  likely  to  visit  the  exhibition?" 

"  I  will  try.     What  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  come  here,  and  watch  her  from  a  little 
distance,  and  see  how  she  takes  it." 

"Ah,  you  \vish  to  see  the  flush  of  pride  and  pleasure  on 
her  face  ? " 

"  No,"  I  said,  gravely  enough — for  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
temporary  triumph  of  showing  off  my  poor  picture  was  but  a 
trifle  compared  with  other  and  life-long  considerations — "  I 
\vant  to  see  if  she  understands  why  the  picture  is  there,  or  if 
she  misapprehends  it  altogether,  and  so  is  likely  to  raise 
another  barrier  between  us,  far  more  insuperable  than  the 
other,  never  to  be  removed.  What  if  she  were  to  think,  even 
for  a  moment,  that  I  had  used  her  face  to  further  my  own 
ambition — that  I  had  dared  to  demean  her  before  all  these 
people— do  you  think  such  a  thought  could  ever  be  effaced 
from  between  us?  And  I  should  read  it  in  her  eyes  in  a 
moment ! " 

"  Ted,"  said  Heatherleigh,  kindly,  "  that  girl  is  more  wo- 
manly and  wise  than  you  fancy.  She  will  understand  it,  and 
she  will  understand  you,  without  any  interference  of  mine." 

"And  I  ask  of  you  not  to  mention  the  matter  to  her.  It 
will  be  a  test  of  confidence  between  us." 

"  So  be  it,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  fear  you  set  too  great  store 
upon  her  interpretation  of  your  motives." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

LEB'  WOHL  ! 

IT  was  some  little  time  before  Hester  Burnham  came  into 
town,  and  I  waited  with  some  impatience  for  her  visit  to  the 
Academy.  In  the  mean  time  the  gracious  eyes  of  Kilmeny 
had  softened  all  the  critics'  hearts,  and  they  talked  of  her  in 
a  way  that  filled  me  with  gratitude.  For  somehow  I  fancied 
that,  in  praising  her,  they  were  praising  that  other  Kilmeny, 
who  still  lingered  among  the  Burnham  woods,  and  I  treas- 
ured up  every  scrap  of  criticism  that  had  a  word  to  say  about 
the  tenderness  of  her  face  or  the  wonder  of  her  eyes. 

I  can  remember  the  first  criticism  that  appeared  on  the 


198  KILMENY. 

picture.  Heatherleigh  and  I  were  seated  in  that  dining- 
place  near  the  top  of  Regent  Street  in  which  the  members 
of  the  Sumner  Society  used  to  congregate.  We  were  all  alert 
in  scanning  the  newspapers  at  this  time  (a  few  days  after  the 
opening  of  the  exhibition)  to  see  what  our  fate  was  to  be. 
Heatherleigh  had  been  attentively  reading  one  of  the  morning 
papers  for  some  time,  when,  without  a  word,  he  handed  it 
over  to  me. 

"  Kilmeny  "  was  the  first  word  I  saw ;  and  then,  as  I  read 
on,  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  there  were  behind  the  gray 
paper  and  type  a  kind  and  earnest  face  that  I  was  not  familiar 
with,  and  that  nevertheless  seemed  to  be  filled  with  a  grave 
and  friendly  interest.  Is  there  any  gratitude  like  the  grat- 
itude of  a  young  artist  to  the  first  critic  who  speaks  well  of 
him,  and  lends  him  the  wings  of  encouragement  and  hope  ? 
To  my  knowledge  I  have  never  seen  this  invisible  friend 
who  spoke  so  warmly  and  confidently  about  my  first  tentative 
effort  yet  I  have  never  forgotten  the  desire  I  experience  ;  to 
know  him  and  thank  him,  and  how  I  came  to  fancy  that,  if  I 
saw  him  anywhere,  I  should  instantly  recognize  him. 

Other  writers,  no  less  generous,  spoke  in  a  similar  strain, 
until  "  Kilmeny  "  came  to  be  looked  on  as  one  of  the  feat- 
ures of  the  exhibition.  Could  I  wonder  at  it  ?  It  was  a  face, 
seen  anywhere,  that  all  men  must  worship ;  and  the  glamour 
of  Kilmeny's  eyes  blinded  them  to  the  imperfections  of  my 
handiwork. 

Of  course,  there  was  great  joy  in  our  small  circle ;  and  it 
was  no  uncommon  thing  for  Polly  to  appear  before  we  had 
sat  down  to  breakfast,  flourishing  a  newspaper  in  her  hand. 
How  she  managed  to  get  a  look  over  all  the  papers  published 
in  London,  at  such  an  early  hour,  I  never  could  make  out ; 
but  one  thing  was  certain,  she  never  missed  the  least  mention 
of  Kilmeny's  name. 

I  met  Bonnie  Lesley  at  the  Lewisons'  several  times.  We 
were  on  very  intimate  terms  now ;  our  past  relations,  and 
her  confession,  singularly  enough,  not  having  left  a  trace  of 
restraint  in  her  manner  towards  me. 

We  were  very  good  friends,  as  I  said  ;  and  I  may  hereafter 
say  something  of  a  notable  excursion  we  made  together  to 
Richmond.  Meanwhile,  she  had  written  to  Hester  Burnham 
to  ask  when  she  was  coming  to  town. 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  that  Hester  won't  take  a  house  in  town, 
like  other  people,"  said  Miss  Lesley. 

"  If  you  got  accustomed  to  living  at  Burnham,  you  would  un- 
derstand why  she  does  not,"  I  said. 


199 

"  I  suppose  she  is  waiting  for  Mr.  Alfred  to  take  the  house 
for  her." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  It  seems  a  pity,"  said  Bonnie  Lesley,  musingly ;  "  but 
you  often  see  people  who  seem  to  have  marriages  made  for 
them.  They  come  in  a  natural  sort  of  a  way,  and  you  never 
think  of  avoiding  them.  I  don't  believe  Hester  cares  much 
for  her  cousin,  and  yet  you  will  see  that  she  will  drift  into 
a  marriage  with  him,  quite  involuntarily." 

"  Very  likely." 

•'  Indeed,  I  fancy  she  would  marry  him  now,  if  he  cared  to 
ask  her." 

"  Why  doesn't  he  ?  " 

"Well,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  smile,  "  it  would  be  a  little 
too  apparent  just  now  that  she  would  have  to  support  him. 
I  dare  say  he  is  waiting  to  get  some  sort  of  position  or  com- 
mission, by  way  of  excuse." 

Then  she  added — 

"  Did  I  tell  you  she  was  coming  to  town  on  Monday  ? 
One  advantage  of  her  not  having  a  house  in  London  is  that 
I  get  more  of  her  when  she  comes.  She  will  stay  here  ;  and 
on  Tuesday,  I  should  think,  we  shall  go  to  the  Academy. 
Will  you  meet  us  there  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  can't  promise." 

"  She  knows  all  about  the  picture,  you  understand,  and  how 
all  London  is  talking  of  her  portrait." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  it  was  her  portrait  ?  "  I  asked,  with  a 
sudden  qualm. 

"  Certainly — her  portrait,  more  or  less.  But  what  was  it 
Mr.  Heatherleigh  said  about  its  being  Hester  clad  in  dreams  ? 
It  is  more  that  than  a  portrait." 

Early  on  the  Tuesday  morning  I  went  down  to  the  front  of 
the  National  Gallery,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  east  side 
of  Trafalgar  Square,  waiting  to  see  Mr.  Lewison's  brougham 
arrive.  It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  I  saw  the  easly 
recognized  pair  of  chestnuts  and  the  dark-green  carriage 
coining  along  from  the  west.  Still  keeping  some  distance 
off,  I  saw  the  occupants  get  out — Bonnie  Lesley,  Mr.  Lewi- 
son,  Mrs.  Lewison,  and  Hester  Burnham.  I  saw  her  go 
up  the  broad  steps — the  small,  graceful,  queenly  figure,  and 
the  long,  floating,  dark-brown  hair  causing  her  to  look  like 
one  of  the  princesses  of  one  of  the  old  Danish  ballads — with 
Bonnie  Lesley,  in  her  brilliant  costume  of  blue  and  white, 
at  her  side.  Then  they  went  inside,  and  were  lost  from 
sight. 


200  KILMENY. 

I  slunk  into  the  place.  The  crowd  was  dense  ;  but  I  made 
my  way  to  the  corner  of  the  room  in  which  "  Kilmeny  "  was 
hung,  that  I  might  see  how  she  would  walk  up  to  the  picture 
and  look  at  it.  I  was  barely  in  time ;  for  they  had  gone 
straight  thither.  I  could  see  Bonnie  Lesley  laughing  merri- 
ly; and  there  was  on  Hester  Burnham's  face  a  confused, 
timid  smile.  They  approached  the  picture.  The  smile  died 
away  from  her  face.  In  its  stead  there  was  a-  strange,  wistful 
look,  as  one  might  look  at  one's  portrait  of  many  years  ago ; 
and  just  at  that  moment  I  caught  the  wonderful  likeness 
between  the  weirdness  of  Kilmeny's  eyes  and  her  own.  It 
was  an  imagination,  doubtless ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the 
living  Kilmeny  stood  there,  with  the  wonders  of  the  other 
world  upon  her,  a  vision  among  men. 

"  Nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face ; 
As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  ee, 
As  the  stillness  that  sleeps  on  the  emerant  lea, 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  sea." 

In  the  middle  of  the  dense,  chattering  mass  of  people  she 
stood,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  breath  of  heaven  still  clung 
about  her,  and  made  an  impassable  barrier  around  her,  sep- 
arating her  from  the  crowd.  I  could  not  stand  there  any 
more.  I  went  forward  to  her  suddenly,  and  took  her  hand. 
She  looked  up,  in  a  bewildered  sort  of  way,  and  then  a  faint 
blush  sprang  to  her  face. 

"  You  are  not  vexed  that  this  should  be  here  ? "  I  said. 

She  glanced  into  my  eyes  for  a  moment — with  a  look  that 
I  shall  never  forget — and  then  she  said,  slowly,  and  in  a  voice 
so  low  that  no  one  around  could  hear — 

"  I  thank  you." 

With  that  Bonnie  Lesley  came  forward  and  protested  blithe- 
ly there  should  be  no  quarrelling — and  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 
I  escaped  from  them  out  into  the  open  air,  and  walked  I 
knew  not  whither,  with  a  new  life  tingling  within  me.  I 
walked  on  blindly.  The  man  who  has  never  been  so  keenly 
happy  as  to  be  unable  to  remain  at  rest  has  never  known 
the  extreme  of  happiness.  There  was  not  in  London  a 
drunker  man  than  I  was  at  that  moment. 

Hester  Burnham  remained  in  town  some  three  weeks. 
I  never  saw  her  during  this  time.  I  dared  not  go  near  the 
house  ;  and  by  some  means  or  other  managed  to  evade  Mrs, 
Lewison's  repeated  invitations.  I  was  engaged  in  preparing 
for  my  going  abroad,  and  was  busy. 

Yet  the  autumn  was  approaching  before  I  was  ready  to 


LEB'  WOHL!  201 

start.  Mr.  Webb,  who  had  become  the  owner  of  "  Kilmeny," 
had  crowned  his  many  friendly  acts  by  arranging  thai  I 
should  not  only  join  Professor  Kunzen's  pupils,  but  also  board 
in  the  Professor's  house.  And  when  everything  was  ready, 
and  all  my  plans  of  operations  sketched  out,  I  privately  slipped 
away  down  into  Buckinghamshire  to  bid  good-bye  to  the 
woods  of  Burnham. 

It  is  worth  while,  I  think,  for  a  man  to  become  an  artist 
that  he  may  learn  to  perceive  the  picturesqueness  of  a  dull 
and  windy  day.  Summer  as  it  was,  the  broad  plains  and 
far  hills  of  Bucks  looked  strangely  forlorn  :  and  there  was 
a  wild  picturesqueness  about  the  masses  of  flying  gray  cloud, 
and  the  sombre  hedges,  and  the  dark  oaks  that  were  clearly 
and  gloomily  marked  against  the  pale  sky.  The  Burnham 
valley,  stretching  up  from  Missenden,  looked  like  one  of  those 
intense,  low-toned  French  landscapes,  in  which  you  seem  to 
perceive  the  blowing  of  a  bleak  and  blustering  wind.  But, 
although  I  wandered  all  about  the  familiar  places  during  this 
long  and  desolate  day,  I  dared  not  go  near  Burnham. 

It  was  night  when  I  went  up  there — a  dark  night,  with  no 
stars  visible.  A  cold  wind  came  over  the  hills,  and  you  could 
hear  the  rustle  of  innumerable  trees  in  the  darkness.  Any 
one  less  acquainted  with  the  road  would  have  had  a  hard 
fight  to  avoid  the  hedges ;  but  I  knew  every  step  of  the  way, 
and  at  length  found  myself  in  the  great  avenue  leading  up  to 
Burnham  House. 

There  was  no  sight  or  sound  discernible  around  the  soli- 
tary building — only  the  murmur  of  the  wind  through  the  ce- 
dars and  the  beeches.  Nor  was  there  any  light  in  the  win- 
dows ;  for  the  family  lived  in  the  more  modern  part  of  the  house, 
which  was  not  visible  from  the  front.  But  it  was  on  this 
space  in  front  of  the  house  that  Hester  Burnham  and  I  used 
to  play,  many  a  year  ago,  when  we  were  children  ;  and  it  was 
here  I  used  to  wait  for  her  until  I  saw  her  bright  face  at  the 
window  above. 

If  the  window  would  but  open  now  !  Here,  in  the  darkness, 
might  not  one  speak  freely  and  boldly,  and  say  good-bye  as 
as  it  ought  to  be  said?  It  the  window  were  but  open,  and 
Kilmeny  there,  listening !  I  could  almost  imagine  that  she 
was  actually  there  at  this  moment,  and  I  looked  up  in  the 
darkness,  and  whispered — 

"  Listen,  before  I  go !  Let  me  tell  you,  now,  when  it 
won't  matter.  I  have  loved  you  always  ;  I  shall  love  you  al- 
ways. You  cannot  prevent  me  loving  you.  I  have  loved  you 
since  ever  I  was  able  to  look  into  your  eyes;  and  I  must  love* 


202  KILMENY. 

you  to  the  end.     Now,  good-bye  and  may  God  guard  you,  my 
very  dearest,  and  keep  you  safe  from  harm." 

There  was  no  sound  in  reply  but  the  rustle  of  the  leaves. 
The  great  front  of  the  house  remained  still  and  silent,  the 
windows  cold  and  dark.  So  I  turned  away  from  Burnham, 
and  from  my  love  ;  and  nothing  seemed  to  say  good-bye,  ex- 
cept it  were  the  tall  and  ghostly  trees,  as  the  cold  wind  of  the 
night  blew  through  them. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
THE  VILLA   LOR'ENZ. 

"  GOOD-MORNING,  Mr.  Sun  !  How  do  you  do  this  morn- 
ing, and  how  have  you  slept?  I  hope  you  are  going  to  bring 
us  a  bright  and  pretty  day ;  for  the  Herr  Papaken,  and  the 
Frau  Mamaken,  and  Annele  and  I  are  all  going  out  for  a 
walk  in  the  Englischer  Garten.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Linden- 
tree  !  And  how  have  you  slept  ?  You — handsome  old  man 
that  you  are — you  must  not  think  of  turning  yellow  yet. 
Good-morning,  Messieurs  et  Mesdames  Sparrows !  I  shall 
have  some  crumbs  for  you  presently." 

I  became  drowsily  aware  that  the  soft  and  pretty  German 
I  heard  came  from  the  lips  of  little  Lena  Kunzen,  who  had 
just  thrown  her  casements  open,  to  let  the  sunlight  into  her 
small  chamber,  which  was  apparently  next  to  mine.  I 
jumped  out  of  bed,  and  found  the  morning  well  advanced,  a 
golden  flood  of  light  falling  over  the  smooth  pastures  and 
stately  trees  of  the  English  garden,  and  on  the  branch  of  the 
Isar  that  runs  through  and  around  and  about  them. 

The  Konigin  Strasse  of  Munich  is,  as  you  may  know,  a 
long  and  quiet  street  that  leads  down  from  the  Hofgarten 
and  skirts  the  Englischer  Garten,  the  handsome  trees  of 
which  it  fronts.  Here  dwelt  the  Herr  Professor  Kunzen,  his 
kindly,  commonplace  wife,  and  his  wicked  and  witching  little 
daughter.  Anybody  who  is  familiar  with  the  sort  of  houses 
in  the  suburbs  of  Leipsic,  or  Berlin,  or  Baden,  will  know 
what  the  Villa  Lorenz  was  like — a  large,  square,  white  house, 
with  white  casements  outside  all  the  windows,  and  with  white 
balconies  projecting  from  the  first  story,  these  balconies  hung 
with  trailing  creepers  of  various  kinds,  tumbling  in  masses 
of  light-green  leaves  about  the  white  porch.  Then  a  small 
enclosure  in  front,  with  a  small  white  statue,  and  fountain 


THE   VILLA  ZOA'A.V/.  203 

in  the  centre,  separated  from  the  street  by  a  row  of  acacias, 
with  here  and  there  a  rowan-tree  and  a  sumach,  just  getting 
crimson.  Behind,  a  larger  garden,  with  bowers  covered 
with  Virginia  creepers,  and  another  dirty-white  figure  and  a 
fountain. 

The  Professor  was  a  tall,  well-made  man  of  about  fifty, 
with  a  shy,  womanish  sensitiveness  about  his  ways  and  man- 
ner which  did  not  seem  to  correspond  with  his  athletic  frame 
and  his  prodigious  pedestrian  powers.  But  it  accorded  well 
with  his  face  when  you  came  to  know  it — when  you  got  to 
see  its  emotional  softness,  and  the  quick  way  that  a  blush 
would  spring  to  the  pale  and  rather  sunken  cheek,  whenever 
the  Professor  had  given  way  to  a  sudden  access  of  enthusi- 
asm. Such  occasions  were  rare  ;  for  he  was  a  very  shy  man, 
who  did  not  like  to  disclose  himself.  He  was  full  of  strong 
and  generous  sympathies,  the  fruit  of  a  remarkably  simple 
and  childlike  nature ;  but  he  had  got  into  such  a  habit  of 
hiding  away  his  inner  feelings,  that  you  would  have  consid- 
ered him  merely  a  thoughtful-looking  man,  timid  in  manner, 
and  with  strong  tendencies  towards  idealism  in  his  dark, 
soft,  deeply  intrenched  eyes. 

His  wife  was  a  short,  rather  dumpy  woman,  a  shrewd  and 
sensible  housekeeper,  practical  in  her  notions,  and  very  fond 
of  her  husband,  over  whose  negligent  habits  and  odd  ways 
she  was  continually  complaining.  I  think  she  looked  upon 
him  as  half-mad  ;  and  was  thankful  he  had  had  the  sense  to 
marry  a  woman  capable  of  looking  after  him  and  his  house. 
As  for  his  pictures,  she  knew  nothing  of  them  beyond  the 
price  they  fetched.  She  was  proud  to  see  his  name  in  the 
papers,  and  she  behaved  with  circumspection  when  great 
people  visited  the  Villa  Lorenz ;  but  she  took  care  to  make 
it 'understood  that  she  would  not  talk  about  art. 

"He  knows  enough  for  both  of  us,"  she  used  to  say,  sensi- 
bly ;  "  I  busy  myself  with  other  matters." 

Under  the  circumstances,  there  could  be  no  great  com- 
munion between  man  and  wife.  The  Professor  never 
revealed  his  solitary  enthusiasms  to  his  spouse ;  and  she  was 
satisfied  in  doing  her  duty  as  regarded  the  wonderful  fresh- 
ness and  purity  of  the  linen  of  the  house,  and  also  as 
regarding  the  cooking.  There  were  several  things  she  al- 
ways cooked  herself ;  and  her  honest  face  beamed  with 
pleasure  if  you  praised  her  preserves.  The  Frau  Professor's 
coffee  I  have  never  found  equalled  anywhere. 

Now,  how  did  this  strangely  assorted  couple  ever  come  to 
have  such  a  daughter  as  little  Lena  Kunzen  ?  This  small 


co4  K1LMEXY. 

witch,  with  her  short  light-brown  curls,  and  her  big  gray  eyes 
that  were  full  of  mischief,  was  a  perpetual  torment  to  her 
surprised  and  grieved  mother,  and  a  perpetual  puzzle  to  the 
shy  Professor,  who  used  to  sit  and  watch  her  as  if  he  wondered 
if  this  wild  creature  were  really  a  daughter  of  his.  The  fun 
of  it  was  that  both  of  them  loved  her  to  distraction ;  for,  with 
a  kitten's  drollery,  she  had  a  kitten's  captivating  ways,  and 
could  get  atonement  at  any  moment  for  her  mad  pranks  by 
a  little  fondling  and  coaxing.  She  was  about  fifteen,  but  a 
perfect  child  in  most  respects ;  and,  doubtless,  much  of  her 
waywardness  of  manner  and  habit  had  risen  from  the  fact 
that  she  had  mixed  little  with  strangers,  and  had  been  al- 
lowed to  do  pretty  much  as  she  liked  in  her  own  home. 
Sometimes,  too,  the  wild,  madcap  spirit  seemed  to  go  right 
out  of  her,  and  she  sat  mute  and  pensive,  with  the  look  of 
her  father's  dreaminess  about  her  eyes.  At  such  times  she 
used  to  show  a  strong  resemblance  to  a  portrait  of  a  shoe- 
maker's daughter,  which  you  will  find  in  the  second  room  of 
Stieler's  "Portraits  of  the  Most  Beautiful  Women,"  in  the 
Festsaalbau.  This  latter  is  a  face  that  is  unforgetable.  It 
has  all  the  finer  characteristics  of  the  intellectual  South 
German  face — the  broad  forehead,  the  calm,  reflective  eye, 
the  delicately  shaped  nose,  the  short  upper  lip,  and  that 
peculiar  deeply  cut  under  lip  which  one  never  finds  out  of 
Germany.  Let  me  add,  here,  that  my  greatest  trouble  in  all 
my  art-studies  in  Germany  was  with  this  type  of  face.  It 
seems  almost  impossible  for  an  English  artist  to  escape  from 
painting  the  self-consciousness  which  is  the  obvious  charac- 
teristic of  the  finest  English  female  faces.  You  will  find  the 
type  of  German  face  of  which  I  speak  painted  by  English 
artists,  and  while  the  features  are  there,  there  is  superadded 
that  pitiful  trick  of  consciousness  which  is  only  not  a  smirk 
because  the  lips  are  thoughtful.  The  difficulty  is  to  give 
the  wonderful  self-possession  and  self-regardlessness  of  such 
a  face,  without  making  it  merely  commonplace  and  dull.  It 
is  a  difficulty  ;  and  an  Englishman,  I  fancy,  can  only  get  over 
it  by  change  of  climate — by  leaving  our  cold  and  fogs  and 
bustle  for  the  warmer  air  and  the  mellower  life  of  the  South. 
If  one  of  the  women  whom  Raphael  painted  had  been  intro- 
duce to  our  life-class  as  a  model,  what  harsh  and  coarse 
interpretations  of  her  would  have  been  the  result  ! 

To  return  to  Lena.  Her  constant  companion  was  a  small 
white  goat,  which  had  been  given  her  as  a  present.  It  was 
variously  called  Anna,  Annele,  and  Aennchen ;  and  its  mis- 


THE  VILLA  LORI 

tress  was  fond  of  expressing  her  love  for  her  favorite  by 
singing— 

"  Acnnchen  von  Tharau  ist,  die  mir  gcfallt, 
Sie  ist  mein  Leben,  mein  Gut  uncl  niein  Geld  ; 
Aennchen  von  Tharau  hat  wicclcr  ihr  Ilerz 
Auf  mich  gerichtet  in  Freud'  und  in  Schmerz ;  " 

and  then,  at  other  times,  she  would  sing,  to  a  tune  of  her 
own,  the  plaintive  old  lines — 

"  Isch's  Anneli  nit  do  ? 
S'  wird  regne,  wird  schneie, 
S'  wird's  Anneli  g'wiss  reue. 
Isch  's  Anneli  nit  do  ?  " 

By  rights,  Aennchen  von  Tharau  should  have  been  a  gentle 
and  timid  creature,  so  that  she  and  her  mistress  might  have 
looked  like  the  group  of  the  pretty  goatherd  and  her  pet, 
which  is  a  favorite  subject  for  lithographs.  On  the  contrary, 
the  small  white  Aennchen  was  a  demon  of  wickedness ;  and 
it  was  fortunate  that  her  malice  was  not  equalled  by  her 
strength.  She  loved  to  run  at  children  unawares,  taking  a 
mean  advantage  of  them  from  behind,  and  tumbling  them  at 
the  feet  of  their  nurses.  Indeed,  she  had  all  manner  of 
tricks  ;  which  were  rather  encouraged  than  repressed  by  her 
mistress,  who  used  to  shout  with  laughter  when  Annele  had 
done  something  especially  naughty.  The  same  spirit  ap- 
peared to  dwell  in  both  ;  and  Lena  used  to  lament  bitterly 
that  her  goat  should  be  prevented  by  nature  from  enjoying 
the  fun  of  hearing  my  blunders  among  the  German  verbs. 
Lena  was  wont  to  tell  her  friends  that,  on  the  first  day  I 
dined  there,  I  had  offered  her  some  "  Pantoffelnsalat  " — an 
audacious  figment,  which  used  to  make  her  laugh  till  the 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 

Lena  had  a  lover.  His  name  was  Franz  Vogl ;  and  he 
was  one  of  the  Professor's  half-dozen  pupils.  Vogl  was  not 
a  handsome  lover.  Nature  seemed  to  have  meant  him  for  a 

comedian his  face  having  precisely  that  odd  irregularity 

which  nearly  every  comic  actor  exhibits.  .  But  in  every  other 
way  Franz  was  a  most  desirable  sweetheart.  He  was  full  of 
fun  ;  he  was  immensely  good-hearted  and  kind  ;  he  was  never 
out  of  spirits  ;  and  he  played  the  zither  in  a  way  that  won  all 
hearts  to  him.  I  have  heard  the  zither  played  by  many  peo- 
ple, but  never  as  Franz  Vogl  played  it.  In  his  hands  it  be- 
came another  instrument.  It  lost  all  the  twanginess  of  the 
guitar,  and  gave  forth  such  wails  of  passionate  feeling — so 


206  KILMENY. 

human-like  in  the  cry — that,  when  it  was  all  over,  the  people 
used  to  look  at  Yogi's  humorous,  commonplace  face,  and 
wonder  whether  he  were  not  a  magician. 

"  Franz,  Franz,"  Lena  would  often  cry,  petulantly,  "  why 
can't  you  teach  me  to  play  the  zither  ?  " 

"  You  will  never  be  able  to  play  the  zither,  Linele." 

He  was  a  Waldshuter,  and  constantly  used  the  rustic  di- 
minutives, and  frequently  the  rustic  dialect,  he  had  learned 
when  young. 

"  But  why,  why,  why,  Franz  ?  I  don't  understand  what 
you  say  about  the  thrill  at  the  end  of  your  fingers.  Is  it  elec- 
tricity ? " 

"  Perhaps  it  is.  At  all  events,  without  that,  you  will  never 
do  more  with  the  zither  than  what  most  people  do — play  a 
jerky  sort  of  music,  in  the  ordinary,  staccato  fashion." 

"  And  I  can  see  your  fingers  hovering  over  the  strings,  un- 
til the  cry  of  the  music  in  the  air  makes  me  think  of  a  human 
voice  overhead,  and  I  get  almost  afraid.  Did  you  see  how 
that  dear  little  Marie  Schleiermann  cried  last  night  when  you 
were  playing  the  Chant  Bohemien  ?  " 

"  That  was  because  poor  Friedrich  Kink  used  to  play  it. 
I  was  a  fool  not  to  remember  that." 

"  But  your  playing  makes  me  so  wretched  sometimes  that 
I  am  near  crying,  too.  Franz,  you  are  conceited,  and  you 
won't  teach  me  to  play  the  zither  because  you  will  have  no- 
body but  yourself  make  people  cry." 

"  I  will  teach  you  the  zither,  if  you  like,  Linele." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  To  go  strum,  strum — twang,  twang — like  old 
Frau  Becher  and  her  guitar.  No  !  I  want  to  be  able  to 
make  it  cry  and  sob,  and  then  laugh  again ;  I  want  to  do 
everything ;  and,  oh,  my  poor  Aennchen,  I  can't  do  any- 
thing." 

With  which  she  would  clasp  Annele  around  the  neck,  and 
pretend  to  whimper. 

I  have  never  seen  any  man  who  enjoyed  life  better  than 
Franz  Vogl.  It  was  a  part  of  his  simple  and  joyous  nature 
to  be  pleased  with  whatever  he  happened  to  be  doing,  and 
that  in  a  hearty,  happy  way  which  was  remarkably  infectious. 
He  was  never  conscious  that  he  was  enjoying  himself,  as 
Heatherleigh  was  ;  nor  did  he  pause  to  estimate  the  value  of 
his  various  enjoyments.  He  sang  for  the  pleasure  of  sing- 
ing ;  he  painted  because  he  liked  painting;, he  enjoyed  a 
conversation  with  a  wagon-driver  about  the  weather  and 
fields,  or  with  a  learned  doctor  about  the  deluge.  He 
enjoyed  sleeping,  eating,  drinking,  walking,  and  sitting  still  j 


7///1  rn.i.A  I.OA'J  207 

and  you  always  found  him  ready  with  a  joke  and  a  laugh  at 
any  time.  His  father  was,  in  his  way,  an  artist.  He  had  a 
studio  some  little  distance  from  Waldshut,  and  there  he  got 
up  and  painted  crucifixes,  and  those  various  pictures  and 
decorations  which  adorn  the  small  way-side  shrines  of  the 
peasantry.  He  was  also  a  bit  of  a  sculptor,  and  had  himself, 
with  his  own  methods,  hewn  out  one  or  two  very  passable 
figures  for  the  same  purpose.  Furthermore,  he  had  a  mod- 
erately sized  farm  ;  and  Franz  being  the  only  son,  the  farm 
was  to  fall  to  him  in  due  course.  So  his  future  was  pretty 
well  cared  for  ;  and  Franz  took  good  care  to  enjoy  the  present. 

He  was  far  more  of  a  musician  than  a  painter.  Sitting  by 
himself,  over  his  beloved  zither,  that  was  his  constant  com- 
panion morning  and  evening,  he  used  to  improvise  in  the 
most  wonderful  fashion  ;  harmonizing  his  melodies  as  he 
went  along,  until  you  lost  sight  of  the  mechanical  effort,  and 
seemed  to  hear  him  speak  with  this  magnificent,  many-toned 
voice.  He  had  a  general  liking  for  all  the  arts,  and  a  tol- 
erable proficiency  in  several.  His  pictures  were  clever, 
and  had  a  certain  novelty  of  manner  about  them  ;  but  Franz 
set  little  store  by  them,  and  it  was  clear  he  was  not  going 
to  be  a  great  artist. 

"  If  I  had  an  ambition,"  he  often  said  to  me,  "  it  would 
be  to  write  a  whole  series  of  songs  in  my  native  dialect,  and 
set  them  to  music." 

"You  can't  feel  the  want  of  a  hobby  much,"  I  said,  "so 
long  as  you  have  your  zither." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  shouldn't  get  on  very  well  without  my 
zither.  (  Obbis  muess  me  ze  triebe  ha,  sust  het  me  langi 
Wul.'  *  I  always  take  my  zither  with  me  when  I  go  on  my 
pedestrian  excursions.  By  the  way,  you  will  accompany  us 
on  our  grand  autumn  excursion  ? " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Down  through  the  Gutach-Thal,  and  around  by  the  Con- 
stance Lake,  and  then,  hey !  for  a  swing  through  the  clear 
air  and  the  cold  sunsets  of  the  Tyrol !  " 

In  the  mean  time  we  were  busy  enough  with  those  opportuni- 
ties of  study  which  this  wonderful  city  afforded.  Every  alter- 
nate morning  we  went  with  the  Professor  to  the  Old  or  the  New 
Pinathothek,  and  there  he,  singling  out  some  particular 
picture,  discussed  its  various  characteristics  and  those  of  the 
school  to  which  it  belonged.  Occasionally  we  paid  a  visit 
to  the  grand  Nibelungen  frescos,  not  then  finished,  until 
Kriemhild  and  Siegfried,  the  red-bearded  and  dark-browed 
*  "  Etwas  muss  man  zu  treiben  haben,  sonst  hat  man  lange  Weile." 


:oS  KILMENY. 

Hagen,  Brunhild,  and  all  the  other  personages  of  the  mighty 
drama  were  familiar  to  us  as  our  own  friends.  I  confess 
that,  at  first,  I  was  a  trifle  disappointed  with  Kriemhild,  the 

..."  scboene  magedin, 
Daz  in  alien  Landen  niht  schooners  niohte  sin ;  " 

and  looked  upon  her  face  as  characterless  and  wanting  in 
emotional  expression.  But  in  time  the  traditions  of  English 
facial  painting  faded  away  from  me,  and  I  got  to  understand 
the  stately  repose  of  the  women  of  the  old  Flemish  and 
German  and  Italian  painters.  Then  we  had  our  exercises  in 
composition,  which  were  grievous  things  for  exposing  one's 
ignorance  of  the  rough  material  of  art.  A  solecism  or  an- 
achronism in  costume,  for  example,  was  instantly  picked 
out  by  the  somewhat  wondering  Professor,  whose  severest 
reproof  was  a  hint  that  you  must  have  been  misled  by  some 
theatrical  scene.  Of  all  our  little  company,  I  was  the  most 
backward  in  this  respect.  I  knew  as  little  how  to  deal  with 
such  a  subject  as  "  Savoy ardenkinder  auf  der  Wanderschaft  " 
as  with  such  a  one  as  "Cervantes  wird  von  dem  Arnauten 
Manni  als  Sklave  nach  Algier  gebracht."  When  the  Pro- 
fessor announced  that  the  subject  for  the  following  Mon- 
day's sketch  would  be  "  Carl  I.  von  England  nimmt  Abs- 
chied  von  seinen  Kindern,"  he  added,  with  a  smile — 

"This  time,  Herr  Edward" — so  he  invariably  named  me, 
finding  some  difficulty  in  pronouncing  "  Ives  " — "you  will 
have  the  advantage.  You  must  be  familiar  with  the  cos- 
tumes of  your  own  country." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Herr  Professor,"  said  I.  "  With  its 
present  costume,  I  am." 

"  The  majority  of  your  countrymen  are  sons-culottes — nicht 
wahr  ?  "  said  Franz  Vogl  with  a  laugh.  "  However,  I  sup- 
pose Charles  I.  of  England  dressed  in  the  French  fashion 
of  the  time.  You  English  are  fond  of  French  importations, 
are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  we  could  afford,  however,  to  do  without  some  of 
them — eggs  and  dramas,  for  example." 

"  The  chief  manufactures  of  England,"  said  Vogl,  "  are 
lords  and  beggars.  But  you  can't  produce  kings.  Let  me 
see,  you  haven't  had  an  English  king  since  Edward  VI." 

"You  produce  so  many  here  that  you  can  supply  the 
markets  of  the  world  with  them,"  I  said ;  "  and  then  they 
have  had  the  advantage  of  an  economical  bringing-up." 

"  Well,  the  kings  we  have  sent  you,  excepting  William  of 


Till-:  VILLA  LORI  209 

of  Orange,  were  rather  a  stupid  lot,  certainly  ;  but  they  were 
a  good  deal  better  than  the  Stuarts." 

"  They  couldn't  be  worse,"  I  said,  "but  they  tried." 

So  the  days  passed  peacefully  away,  in  the  quiet,  white 
city.  Franz  and  I  became  great  friends  ;  and  many  a  merry 
walk  we  had,  and  many  a  merry  chat  in  the  beer-garden 
"Zum  Tivoli,"  on  the  wooden  benches,  under  the  great  limes, 
fronting  the  narrow  strip  of  the  Isar  that  runs  around  the 
Englischer  Garten.  I  had  a  letter  from  England  occasion- 
ally ;  sometimes  from  Polly  Whistler  ;  sometimes  from  Heath- 
erleigh,  who  had  become  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  dealers ; 
and  two  letters  I  had  received  from  Bonnie  Lesley,  contain- 
ing abundant  gossip  about  Burnham. 

"  People  have  not  yet  done  speaking  about  '  Kilmeny,'  " 
she  added.  "  When  are  you  going  to  send  us  another  pict- 
ure over  ?  And  this  time,  mind,  it  must  be  no  likeness  ;  or, 
if  a  likeness — well,  I  will  say  no  more.  I  send  you,  as  you 
wish,  a  bit  of  the  great  St.  John's-wort  from  the  Burnham 
woods.  I  wrote  for  it  to  Hester,  who  desires  to  be  remem- 
bered to  you.  But  I  dare  say  you  have  forgotten  us  all,  and 
are  walking  every  evening  with  some  pretty  Fraulein  along 
the  long  green  avenues  near  the  Isar.  Or  do  you  buy  her 
gloves  in  the  Maximilian  Strasse  ?  Or  do  you  take  her  to 
hear  Wagner's  operas  in  the  Hof theater ;  and  does  she  call 
you  '  du '  yet  ?  Good-bye.  If  you  are  not  too  much  engaged 
to  answer  this  impertinent  note,  address  me  at  Burnham, 
whither  I  go  on  Monday  next." 

When  I  got  such  a  letter  as  this,  breathing  of  English  life 
and  associations,  I  used  to  go  out  into  the  "  English  garden." 
and  lie  down  on  the  banks  of  the  Isar,  near  that  great  open 
space  of  meadow  in  the  middle  of  the  trees.  Lying  here, 
with  the  bulbous  spires  of  the  Domkirche  shut  out  from  sight, 
you  might  imagine  yourself  in  an  English  park ;  and  I  used 
to  try  to  make  myself  believe  that  I  was  looking  over  upon 
the  Burnham  woods.  Very  few  people  entered  the  garden 
during  the  day,  and  those  who  did  kept  to  the  shaded  walks 
under  the  lindens  and  elms.  Lying  quite  alone  there,  I  used 
to  read  and  re-read  those  portions  of  my  letters  which  spoke 
of  Buckinghamshire,  until  I  should  scarcely  have  been  sur- 
prised had  I  seen  Miss  Hester  herself  come  walking  over  to 
me  from  among  the  trees.  For,  indeed,  my  heart  was  a  sort 
of  carrier-pigeon  ;  and  the  moment  I  let  it  loose,  it  flew 
straight  back  to  Burnham.  and  only  folded  its  wings  at  the 
feet  of  my  dear  mistress. 
14 


210  KILMENY. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

DAS   WANDERLEBEN. 

I  THANK  God  for  Germany.  It  was  there  that  I  first  be- 
gan to  throw  off  the  hideous  thrall  that  had  weighed  upon 
my  life  in  England.  It  was  there,  properly  speaking,  that  I 
began  to  live.  Out  of  that  whirl  of  anxious  struggling,  with 
its  petty  ambitions,  its  envious  competitions,  its  narrow  inter- 
ests, its  bitter  fears,  that  had  at  one  time  overawed  and,  later 
on,  sickened  me,  I  had  got  into  the  more  beautiful,  simple, 
joyous  life  of  South  Germany.  Here  was  no  agonized  fret- 
ting and  scrambling  after  wealth,  but  a  peaceful  moderation, 
and  contented  enjoyment  of  small  means.  Well  do  I  remem- 
ber the  half-conscious  blush  of  enthusiasm  that  passed  over 
the  face  of  the  good  Professor,  as  we  stood  above  the  great 
Gutach-Thal,  and  looked  down  upon  its  green  fields,  its  rush- 
ing stream,  and  the  steep  sides  of  the  mountains  covered  with 
a  dense  green  forest.  We  had  come  over  from  Hausach,  and 
walked  along  the  wonderful  valley,  on  either  side  the  precip- 
itous and  wooded  hills  steeped  in  a  glorious  sunlight.  From 
Tryberg  we  had  followed  the  winding  road  that  leads  up  the 
mountain  to  St.  Georgen,  and  now,  as  we  stood  some  five 
thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  looked  down 
into  the  still,  vast  hollow,  a  more  charming  picture  of  pas- 
toral life  could  not  have  been  conceived.  Far  below  us,  a 
long  wooden  wagon,  drawn  by  a  couple  of  oxen,  was  coming 
slowly  up  the  hill.  By  its  side  were  two  women,  with  large 
white  hats  and  black  rosettes,  with  short  petticoats,  puffy 
white  sleeves,  and  bronzed  arms  bare  from  the  elbow.  A 
young  girl  was  with  them,  whose  profuse  light-brown  hair 
hung  in  two  long  twisted  tails  down  her  back.  There  were 
few  people  now  in  the  fields,  for  the  afternoon  sun  had  begun 
to  glow  with  a  lurid  brilliancy  on  the  gleaming  scarlet  bunches 
of  rowans,  a  row  of  which  beautiful  trees  came  up  all  the  way 
from  Tryberg.  One  side  of  the  ravine  lay  in  shadow  ;  along 
the  other  the  warm  light  fell  on  immense^  stretches  of  forest 
that  rose  up  to  the  pale  green  sky.  Underneath  our  feet,  and 
yet  far  above  the  bottom  of  the  glen,  a  large  hawk  sailed  in 
the  air,  sometimes  fluttering  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  pois- 
ing himself  and  remaining  motionless. 

"  I  will  venture  to  call  this  the  Happy  Valley,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, with  a  sudden  burst  of  enthusiasm.  "  Here  you  will 
find  neither  rich  people  nor  poor  people  ;  but  all  have  fair 


/u.v  //:•/. \ v >/•: AV.  /•:/.'/  211 

lab . -r  and  moderate  means,  and  a  healthy  and  virtuous  life. 
In  Kngland,  Herr  Edward,  you  are  all  too  rich  or  too  poor  ; 
and  your  rich  are  growing  rapidly  richer,  while  your  poor 
are  growing  rapidly  poorer.  What  is  your  general  percentage 
of  pauperism  ? " 

"Twenty-three  per  cent,  I  believe." 

"  Herr  Je  !  "  exclaimed  the  Professor.  "  Here,  I  will  un- 
dertake to  say,  you  will  not  find  three  people  out  of  every 
hundred  who  are  unable  to  work,  and  who  live  upon  charity. 
Is  it  that  your  taxes  weigh  too  heavily  on  the  poor  ;  or  do  you 
pay  too  expensively  for  your  kings  and  their  circle ;  or  is 
your  population  increasing  more  rapidly  than  your  trade  ;  or 
are  your  poor  wasteful  and  extravagant  when  they  have  work, 
and  mean-spirited  when  they  have  none  ?  " 

"  Du !  "  said  Franz,  maliciously,  addressing  one  of  our 
small  company,  by  name  Silber.  "  Do  you  know  why  the 
Gutach-Thal  has  always  been  a  prosperous,  contented  place  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Silber,  a  heavy-looking,  fair  young  man  from 
the  Rhine  country,  who  dressed  like  a  theatrical  student,  and 
wore  his  flaxen  hair  clown  to  his  shoulders. 

"  Because  the  people  are  Protestants.  You  have  not  seen  a 
road-side  crucifix  all  the  way  up  from  Tryberg." 

"  Do  the  crucifixes  keep  the  corn  from  growing  ?  "  growled 
the  practical  Silber,  who  was  a  good  Catholic  and  an  indif- 
ferent painter. 

We  had  all  sat  down  by  this  time.  Almost  instinctively 
Franz  unslung  the  case  which  held  his  zither,  took  out  the 
instrument,  laid  it  across  his  knees,  and  let  his  fingers  wander 
for  a  second  or  two  over  the  strings.  And  then  he  sang,  in  a 
careless  sort  of  fashion,  the  story  of  Schiller's  maiden,  who 
came,  like  Kilmeny,  no  one  knew  whence,  into  a  valley  like 
the  one  at  our  feet — 

"  Sie  war  nicht  in  dem  Thai  geboren, 
Man  wusste  nicht,  woher  sie  kam, 
Und  schnell  war  ihre  Spur  verloren, 
Sobald  das  Madchen  Abschied  nahm." 

And  then  he  sung  a  tender  farewell  to  the  Gutach-Thal, 
and  greeted  it  "ein  tausend  Mai,"  as  we  got  up  and  went  on 
our  way. 

Franz  was  not  much  of  a  singer;  but  you  forgot  that  in 
listening  to  the  wonderful  tones  of  the  zither.  His  singing 
was  a  sort  of  excuse  for  his  playing ;  and  what  was  lacking  in 
his  voice  was  more  than  made  up  by  the  extraordinary,  pa- 


212  KJLMENY. 

thetic  power  of  the  instrument  that  he  loved  so  well.  Every 
spare  half-hour  of  this  memorable  excursion  was  devoted  to 
the  zither;  and  his  stock  of  music  was  literally  inexhaustible. 
Above  all,  however,  he  preferred  the  old  Volkslieder  of  the 
Black  Forest  and  the  Tyrol ;  and  many  a  glad  evening  we 
spent  in  remote  country  inns,  with  Franz's  music  as  our  only 
speech. 

We  stayed  this  night  at  St.  Georgen,  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain.  There  were  no  other  strangers  in  the  solitary  inn 
except  a  young  girl  and  her  father,  who  were  going  on  next 
day  to  Hausach  by  the  Eilwagen.  She  was  a  pretty  sort  of 
girl,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  a  mobile,  sensitive  face. 
During  dinner — we  all  happened  to  dine  at  the  same  time — 
Franz  became  very  good  friends  with  the  Herr  Papa,  chiefly 
by  reason  of  his  miraculous  flow  of  stories,  which  kept  the 
the  old  gentleman  laughing  from  one  end  of  the  meal  to  the 
other.  After  dinner,  said  Franz  : 

"  Does  your  daughter  sing,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  sings  a  little." 

"  Will  you  be  so  friendly,  Fraulein,  as  to  sing  a  little  song, 
and  I  will  give  you  an  accompaniment  ?  Or  will  you  hear  me 
first  ?  My  companions  are  tired  of  me  and  my  zither  ;  and 
I  shall  be  glad  to  have  a  new  audience." 

But  we  all  sat  down  at  the  table,  when  it  was  cleared,  and 
the  candles  were  lit :  then  we  took  out  our  cigars  and  pipes 
and  Franz  placed  his  zither  before  him. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  play  yourself,  Fraulein  ? "  he  asked. 

*;  No,"  she  said,  with  a  smile.     "We  are  from  Cologne." 

•'  Then  our  southern  songs  may  be  a  novelty  to  you.  Do 
you  know  '  Es  ritt  ein  Jagersmann  uber  die  Flur  ? ' ' 

"  Ach,  Gott,  yes  !  But  I  could  hear  it  a  hundred  times," 
she  said,  softly. 

So  he  sang  the  pathetic  ballad,  and  the  thrilling  joy  and 
tenderness  and  agony  that  he  woke  from  the  strings  of  the 
zither  seemed  to  make  the  song  almost  a  dramatic  imperson- 
ation. You  could  see  the  huntsman  riding  gayly  home, 
blowing  his  horn  to  let  his  "  Herzliebchen  "  know  he  was 
coming.  Then  his  wonder  that  she  was  not  at  the  threshold 
to  kiss  him — his  entrance  into  the  house — no  meal  ready  for 
him,  no  wine  in  his  cup ;  and  then  his  finding  his  heart's  love 
lying  cold  and  dead  among  the  flowers  in  the  garden.  Then, 
with  sharper  and  bitterer  music,  how  he  unbridled  his  horse 
for  the  last  time,  and  set  him  free  ;  how  he  took  down  his 
gun  again  from  the  wall  and  loaded  it  with  "  deadly  lead  ;  " 


DAS  WANDERL&BEN. 

and  how,  with  one  final,  despairing  carol  of  his  hunting-song, 
he  "  went  home  to  his  heart's  love." 

"  Drauf  stimmt  er  an  den  Jagdgesang, 
Den  lauten  und  frohlichen  Hornerklang, 

Trarah  !  trarahl  trarah! 
Und  ging  zum  Ilcrzlicbchen  heim." 

"  Sir,  you  make  that  instrument  speak,"  said  the  girl's 
father;  as  for  her,  she  sat  quite  still  and  silent,  but  I  fancied 
I  could  see  a  slightly  tremulous  motion  of  her  underlip. 

We  had  the  merriest  of  evenings  in  this  old  Gasthaus. 
The  Fraulein's  Herr  Papa  and  the  Professor  were  soon  deep 
in  a  conversation  about  the  Black  Forest  people  ;  and  the 
Papa,  who  had  been  living  in  Hufingen,  proudly  declared 
that  the  whole  population  of  the  town  could  produce  no  more 
than  half-a-dozen  paupers — six  poor  old  women,  who  inhabited 
the  barn-like  building  bequeathed  by  Prince  Furstenburg. 
So  we  younger  ones  were  left  to  our  singing ;  and  the  Frau- 
lein,  with  the  dark  eyes  and  the  pretty  smile,  sang  too,  in  a 
timid  way.  We  had  Dr.  Eisenbart,  whose  wondrous  skill 
could  make  the  blind  to  walk  and  the  lame  to  see  ;  we  had  Herr 
Oloff,  who  met  with  the  Erl-king's  daughter,  and  grew 
deathly  white  and  died ;  Franz  gave  us  that  devil-may-care 
ditty,  "  Ich  gehe  meinen  Schlendrian ; "  and  Silber,  being 
from  the  Rhine-country,  could  not  help  singing  the  "  Lore- 
ley."  When  they  asked  me  for  an  old  English  ballad,  I  felt 
puzzled.  Have  we  any?  Scotland  is  rich  in  old  songs; 
Ireland  had  plenty  ;  but  England — ?  So  I  took  refuge  in  the 
Tyrol ;  and  sang  them  the  song  of  the  lover  who  plaited  a 
garland  of  flowers,  and  bound  his  heart  in  it,  and  laid  it  at 
his  sweetheart's  feet. 

It  was  a  merry  evening,  and  it  was  a  merry  morning  that 
followed  ;  for  as  we  crossed  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and 
looked  away  down  into  the  south,  we  saw  the  sunlight  lying 
on  the  long,  dark  green  hills  of  the  Black  Forest,  and  above 
them,  rising  faintly  in  the  far  horizon,  the  splendid  line  of 
the  Bernese  Alps.  The  prospect  of  this  magnificent  plain, 
with  its  undulating  masses  of  forest,  its  scattered  villages,  and 
its  winding  river-track,  filled  us  with  joy,  for  it  said,  "  Hence- 
forth you  are  cut  of  from  cities.  You  shall  wander  along  by 
river  and  valley,  by  farmstead  and  village,  forgetting  the 
pallid  faces  and  the  sluggish  ways  of  the  dwellers  in  towns. 
Your  hunger  will  grow  sharp,  your  thirst  keen,  your  sleep 
profound  and  sweet.  Then  up  again  and  away  in  the  morn- 


214  KILMENY. 

Ye  gods  !  how  hungry  one  became  in  that  rare  atmosphere  ! 
Cold  veal,  brown  bread,  and  red  Tischwein  became  a  feast  to 
us ;  but  when  we  fell  upon  a  more  favored  spot,  where  a 
good  landlady  could  transform  the  veal  into  a  luxurious  and 
occult  "  Falscher  Vogel ;  "  and  when  she  produced  from  her 
cunning  cupboard  a  bottle  of  Affenthaler,  then  we  found  no 
words  to  express  our  delight. 

"  Soon,"  said  Franz,  "  we  shall  leave  the  land  of  the  *  Fals- 
cher Vogel '  for  the  land  of  the  '  Schnitzel.'  We  shall  see 
no  more  of  the  dark-green  forest ;  beeches  and  birches  will 
mix  with  the  firs.  We  are  going  farther,  to  fare  worse." 

His  heart  clung  about  the  Black  Forest,  his  native  coun- 
try. I  think  he  would  fain  have  darted  away  from  us,  and 
gone  down  by  Donaueschingen  and  Lenzkirch  and  St.  Blasien 
to  his  beloved  Waldshut.  He  was  just  a  trifle  sad  as  we 
turned  our  back  on  the  dark-green  woods,  and  entered  the 
valley  of  the  Danube,  near  where  the  great  river  rises,  a  small 
spring,  in  Prince  Furstenberg's  garden.  But  his  melancholy 
did  not  last  long.  The  day  was  lovely.  On  each  side  of 
the  valley  the  great  mountains  were  covered  with  beach,  now 
turning  red  and  yellow,  and  the  sunlight  burned  along  these 
successive  slopes.  So  we  wandered  on;  and  down  by 
Thalmuhle,  in  the  heart  of  the  hollow,  we  came  upon  a  small 
inn,  that  had  a  bowling-alley  in  the  garden. 

"'Who  will  challenge  me?"  said  the  Professor,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  I  will,"  replied  Silber,  who  had  lived  in  Mainz,  and  fan- 
cied he  knew  how  to  hit  the  front  pin  at  the  proper  angle. 

We  called  for  some  beer  :  the  Professor  threw  off  his  coat, 
and  took  up  one  of  the  large  balls.  He  kept  his  long  legs 
rather  apart,  balancing  himself  ;  and  then,  without  moving  a 
foot,  he  lowered  his  right  arm,  and  with  a  rapid  sweep  sent 
the  ball  spinning  up  the  alley.  There  was  a  rumble  and  a 
crash,  and  the  whole  nine  pins  were  lying  in  a  confused 
heap. 

"  Silber  pays  for  the  beer,"  remarked  Franz,  with  a  laugh. 

And  so  it  turned  out.  The  Professor  had  not  forgotten  his 
skill  since  his  student  days ;  and  Silber  had  but  a  poor  chance 
against  that  powerful  arm,  the  lithe  and  supple  frame,  and 
dark,  sure  eye.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  Franz  accompanied 
the  peformance  with  some  music  ;  and  the  landlord,  who 
had  come  with  the  beer,  hung  about  and  stared  at  the  musi- 
can,  as  the  latter  "  made  the  zither  speak." 

We  lingered  some  little  while  in  this  beautiful  valley,  mak- 


WANDERLEBEN.  215 

ing  such  sketches  and  studies  as  were  thought  desirable.  Then 
on  again,  with  Franz  singing  his  doggerel  verse — 

"  Ich  bin  cler  Graf  von  Frcischutz, 
Der  so  gern  hinter  'm  Ofen  sitzt, 
Der  Tag  und  Nacht  marschirt,       • 
Hunger  leidet  und  halb  verfriert." 

We  left  the  course  of  the  young  Danube  and  drew  southward 
towards  the  infancy  of  the  mightier  Rhine,  entering  upon  that 
wide  plain  which,  between  Engen  and  Singen,  is  studded  with 
huge  volcanic  peaks,  rising  abruptly  from  the  level  soil. 
How  did  the  old  nobles  build  their  spacious  strongholds  on 
the  summit  of  these  perpendicular  peaks — the  splendid  Ho- 
henhowen,  Hohentwiel,  Hohenstaffeln,  Hohenkrahen  ?  Did 
the  peasantry  fly  away  from  the  neighborhood  in  which  such 
a  whim  had  overtaken  their  lord,  or  did  they  meekly  submit 
to  it,  and  spend  their  toilsome  days  in  dragging  huge  blocks 
of  masonry  up  the  sharp  and  rugged  cones?  At  all  events, 
the  ruins  of  the  castles  still  stand  there,  miracles  of  human 
labor  and  perseverance,  far  surpassing  those  on  the  Rhine. 
And  all  the  country  about  seemed  still  and  quiet  around  these 
memorials  of  ancient  power.  The  fields  that  stretched  for  miles 
around  the  foot  of  the  isolated  peaks  were  as  silent  as  the 
great  Raubvogel  that  spread  its  wings  and  hung  motionless 
in  the  air,  spying  for  some  fluttering  bird  or  creeping  thing 
in  the  valley  beneath.  But  here,  also,  there  was  peace  and 
comfort ;  and  we  had  a  good  laugh  over  the  sorrows  of  the 
only  man  we  found  in  the  district  who  seemed  to  complain. 

This  was  a  stone-breaker — an  old  man,  with  bleared,  wist- 
ful eyes,  that  had  a  strange,  innocent  look  of  surprise  in  them. 
I  cannot  express  in  words  the  feeling  which  this  old  man's 
look  gave  one ;  but  it  seemed  somehow  the  half-frightened, 
half-pitiful  glance  of  a  boy  that  was  busy  with  some  appointed 
task,  and  raised  his  head  apprehensively  as  his  master  ap- 
proached. There  was  something  very  touching  in  this  queer 
look,  which  appeared  to  say  that  the  man  had  been  doing  his 
best  all  his  life,  and  hoped  he  was  doing  right. 

Of  course,  Franz  began  to  talk  to  him ;  and  we,  who  could 
only  gather  odd  words  and  sentences,  understood  enough  to 
see  that  the  man's  whole  life  and  interest  were  confined  to 
his  occupation.  He  spoke  of  the  different  kinds  of  stones  as 
if  they  were  sly  fellows  who  had  to  be  cunningly  treated  ; 
and,  as  he  spoke  about  a  very  good  kind  of  stone,  there  was 
a  half-comical  grin  on  his  face,  as  if  he  had  said — 

"  We  can  get  on  very  well  with  that  merry  little  devil  of  a 


216  KILMENY. 

stone.     He  is   easy   to   break;    he    lies   well  on  the  roads 
Ah !  he  is  a  good  helper  to  us,  that  funny  little  stone." 

Then  his  face  fell  again,  and  he  turned  to  his  work,  and 
said,  with  a  sigh — 

"  D'  Welt  word  alle  Tag  schleachter — s'  ist  en  bose  Zit  fur 
us  arme  Lut,  dia  so  alt  sind." 

And  then  he  murmured  something  about  his  poor  pay  and 
his  struggle  with  the  world.  But  it  turned  out  that  he  made 
a  florin  a  day  ;  and  Franz  was  immensely  tickled  by  the  af- 
fected sorrows  of  a  stone-breaker  who  could  make  los.  a 
week  ;  some  of  my  readers  may  fancy  that  a  poor  wage  for  a 
working-man;  but  consider  that,  whereas  in  England  the 
working-man's  beer  costs  him  fivepence  a  quart,  in  Germany 
it  costs  a  penny  ;  that  a  penny  in  Germany  will  get  a  pound 
of  bread,  for  which  in  England  he  pays  twopence ;  and  that 
most  articles  required  by  the  working-man  are  to  be  got  in 
the  latter  proportion.  Why,  the  people  who  chop  wood  in 
the  by-streets  of  Munich  can  make  a  florin  and  a  half  per  day, 
or  15.$-.  a  week. 

It  was  towards  dusk  on  a  lovely  evening  that  we  drew  near 
to  Constance,  and  the  long  lake  shone  a  light  crimson  under 
the  sunset.  Far  down  in  the  southeast  a  cold,  blue  mist  had 
gathered  along  its  shores  and  under  the  great,  purple  masses  of 
the  Tyrolese  Alps,  that  seemed  to  encircle  the  horizon  ;  but  here 
at  hand,  under  the  white  town,  the  still,  clear  waters  lay  with 
scarcely  a  ripple  on  their  surface  to  break  the  splendid  glow 
of  color.  Overhead  the  last  flush  of  sunset  struck  along  the 
golden  bars  of  cloud  and  then  died  out  in  the  pale  green  of 
the  east ;  while  the  distant  mountains  had  a  touch  of  red 
along  their  peaks,  where  the  great  shoulders  rose  out  of  the 
pale  mist.  So  still  was  the  kike  !  And  as  the  evening  deep- 
ened, the  keen  colors  faded  out,  and  the  white  mist  came  up  and 
lay  all  over  the  breadth  of  the  water ;  while  the  orange  lights  of 
Constance  began  to  twinkle  in  the  dusk,  and  a  small  steamer 
in  the  harbor  ran  up  its  colored  lamps. 

We  had  letters  awaiting  us.  A  long  epistle  from  Heather- 
leigh  I  shall  give  presently ;  but  I  may  insert  here  the  brief 
note  which  Lena  Kunzen  sent  her  lover.  Franz  was  deeply 
disgusted  by  it,  as  he  had  been  expecting  a  tender  and  affec- 
tionate letter.  He  showed  it  to  me,  with  a  rueful  counte- 
nance. It  ran  in  this  fashion  : 

"  MUNCHEN,  Tuesday. 

11  Fraulein  Annele  von  Tharau  presents  her  compliments  to 
Herr  Franz,  and  hopes  he  is  a  good  boy.  She  is  quite  well, 
and  in  good  spirits;  was  out  for  a  walk  in  the  Englischer 


/./  /•///•.  A-  .L\D  .var.  217 

(lartcn  this  morning,  and  accidently  ran  against  a  little 
Scotchman,  \vho  was  dressed  in  the  peculiar  costume  of  his 
country.  The  little  Scotchman  tumbled  and  cried.  The 
Fran  Mutterlein  was  for  cuffing  Annele  ;  but  she  was  saved 
from  that  indignity.  Hopes  the  Herr  Papa  is  well.  Will  be 
glad  to  hear  from  the  honorable  company  of  travellers,  and 
thinks  that  a  hat  such  as  is  worn  by  the  young  ladies  of 
Innsbruck  might  become  Fraulein  Lena  well,  and  be  a  pretty 
present,  if  Herr  Franz  is  also  of  that  opinion.  Fraulein  An- 
nela  commends  herself." 

"  She  is  a  little  devil  of  a  girl,"  said  Franz,  disconsolately. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

FATHER  AND  SON. 

"  MY  dear  Ted,  it  is  to  you  alone  that  I  can  write  fully  of 
all  that  has  befallen  me  during  the  past  few  days.  If  we 
could  only  go  out  now,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  and  have 
one  of  our  old  saunters  around  the  Serpentine,  with  the 
yellow  lamps  burning  in  the  gray,  and  courting  couples  re- 
garding warily  our  approach  !  But  then  it  rains  at  present, 
and  you — you  lucky  dog — are  down  in  the  clear  South,  where 
night  is  like  day,  and  the  stars,  I  dare  be  sworn,  are  shining 
over  the  Bodensee.  Hang  you ! 

"  A  week  ago  I  got  a  letter  from  home.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  I  had  seen  my  father's  handwriting  or  the  familiar 
crest  for  many  years. 

"  *  Come,'  said  I  to  myself,  *  are  we  all  about  to  become 
sensible,  and  is  the  world  getting  to  an  end  ? ' 

"You  remember  that  I  told  you  how  I  parted  from  my 
family  when  I  was  young.  The  cause  of  that  parting  I  can- 
not help  feeling  as  bitterly  now  as  then  ;  and  yet,  what  is  the 
use  of  it  ?  What  is  the  use  of  keeping  up  old  grudges  ? 
But  there  are  some  things  a  man  cannot  forget. 

"  Pride  helped  to  widen  the  breach.  It  is  a  fault  that  runs 
in  our  family,  and  a  good  deal  of  it  has  run  my  way.  There  is 
only  one  person  I  know  who,  in  that  direction,  is  a  bigger  fool 
than  myself ;  and  that's  you.  However,  to  cut  the  matter 
short,  my  father  told  me  that  he  was  coming  up  to  town  in  a 
day  or  two,  and  would  call  upon  me.  I  was  surprised,  but 
contented. 


2i  8  KILMENY. 

"  He  came  tip  one  forenoon,  looking  just  as  he  used  to 
look,  but  a  trifle  grayer.  He  was  stiff  and  cold  in  his  man- 
ner, as  though  he  would  have  it  known  that  he  had  not  come 
as  a  suppliant.  He  looked  with  some  contempt  around  my 
studio,  and  then  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  table,  where  some  beer 
and  tobacco  stood. 

"  Will  you  put  that  pipe  and  the  ashes  away  ?  The  smell 
is  abominable." 

"  I  carried  them  into  my  bedroom,  and  put  them  on  the 
mantel-piece.  Then  I  returned.  It  was  an  affecting  meet- 
ing between  a  father  and  son  who  had  not  seen  each  other 
for  something  like  nine  years,  was  it  not?  And  yet,  I 
declare  to  you,  Ted,  there  seemed  to  hover  between  me  and 
him  an  almost  invisible  shape,  tender  and  delicate  and  beau- 
tiful ;  and  I  felt  all  the  bitterness  of  the  old  irreparable 
wrong  rising  within  me.  Call  me  what  you  like— unnatural, 
insensate  :  there  the  feeling  was,  and  how  could  I  make 
believe  to  be  friendly  ?  At  the  very  moment,  too,  I  knew 
that  my  darling  in  heaven,  if  she  could  have  interposed 
between  us,  would  have  besought  our  reconciliation.  I  felt 
that  also.  But  when  a  man's  wife  has  been  insulted,  does 
the  husband  care  for  the  pleading  of  the  frightened  face  that 
would  fain  come  between  ? 

"  *  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  such  a  place,'  he  said,  looking 
around. 

"  '  I  am  very  comfortable,'  said  I. 

"  He  sat  down. 

"  'This  unhappy  estrangement  has  lasted  long  enough 
between  us.' 

"  '  I  think  it  has,  sir.' 

"  '  I  am  glad  you  think  so.  You  have  doubtless  seen  more 
of  the  world  since  you  took  that  step  which — which — 

"  *  Which  I  don't  regret  having  taken,'  said  I. 

"  *  Let  us  talk  sensibly.  Let  us  understand  each  other,'  he 
continued.  'There  is  no  use  in  recalling  what  is  over  and 
gone.  There  were — hem  ! — faults  on  both  sides,  I  dare  say. 
You  must  see  now  that  it  would  have  been  most  imprudent 
of  you  to  have  married — ' 

"  '  I  thought  we  were  to  forget  those  things,  for  form's 
sake,'  I  said,  feeling  my  cheek  flush.  '  But  since  you  have 
recalled  them,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  shall  never  forget  them 
— that  the  more  I  see  of  the  world,  the  more  despicable  and 
cowardly  seems  the  conduct  of  you  and  yours  to  that  poor 
girl.  Do  you  fancy  I  did  not  marry  her  because  of  the  under- 
hand ways  you  took  to  prevent  the  marriage  ?  God  knows  it 


FATHER  AND  SON.  219 

was  for  a  far  different  reason  ;  but  not  the  less  do  I  remem- 
ber what  you  tried  to  do  at  that  time,  and  the  memory  of  it 
has  gone  on  bearing  heavy  interest  ever  since.' 

"  I  am  sorry  I  said  this,  Ted.  For  what  was  the  use  of 
saying  it  ?  I  should  have  let  the  thing  go ;  and  then  my 
father  might  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  he  and 
I  were  likely  to  get  back  to  our  old  terms.  But  you  who  know 
me,  know  that  that  is  impossible  in  this  world.  I  hope  I  do  not 
bear  my  father  any  ill-will.  I  should  like  to  do  anything  in 
my  power  to  please  him.  But  there  is  no  man  living  whom  I 
am  so  anxious  to  avoid. 

"  '  Confound  it,'  he  said,  l  let  all  that  alone.  Let  us  talk 
sensibly,  like  two  men  of  the  world.  You  are  no  longer  a 
boy.  You  know  the  advantages  of  a  good  name,  of  a  position, 
money,  and  its  comforts.  I  am  willing  to  make  a  bargain 
with  you — to  let  by-gones  be  by-gones,  and  that  you  should 
come  back  home  again,  and  take  up  your  proper  place  in  the 
house.' 

"  For  a  moment  I  thought  with  an  involuntary  shudder  of 
having  to  meet  this  man's  face  every  day — recalling  another 
face !  Then  I  reflected  that,  after  all,  I  was  his  son,  and 
cwed  him  a  certain  duty. 

"  '  Very  well,  sir,'  I  said ;  '  1  have  no  objection  to  go  an  d 
live  in  your  house.  Of  course,  I  have  my  profession,  which  I 
should  like  to  follow — ' 

"  *  As  an  amusement,'  he  interposed,  hastily. 

"  *  Very  well,"  said  I ;  *  I  am  not  artist-mad,  as  I  used  to 
be.' 

"  Even  as  I  gave  in  this  half-adhesion  to  his  proposal,  a 
startling  thought  suggested  itself — What  if  I  should  only  go 
home  to  be  again  placed  in  an  attitude  of  antagonism  to  all 
my  relatives  ?  Did  my  father  think  of  this  at  the  same  mo- 
ment? 

"  *  There  is  another  subject  I  want  to  drop  you  a  hint  about, 
that  may  make  your  return  to  us  more  attractive.  Of  course 
you  must  marry  some  day  or  other.  Now  it  has  occurred  to 
us  that  there  is  a  certain  young  lady,  a  neighbor  of  ours,  who 
would  prove  a  suitable  wife — that  is,  of  course,  of  course,  if 
you  were  to  become  fond  of  each  other.  God  forbid  there 
should  be  any  money-marriage  between  you,  without  affection. 
I  am  proud  to  say  that  our  family  does  not  need  that  method 
of  increasing  its  fortune  ;  it  can  stand  by  itself.  But  at  the 
same  time,  the  young  lady  is  young,  not  bad-looking,  and 
they  say  she  has  never  even  thought  of  anybody,  while  the 
junction  of  the  Whitby  lands  with  ours — ' 


220  KILMENY. 

"  '  Oh,  you  mean  Miss  Whitby  ? ' 

u  '  Exactly.     I  hope  you  have  nothing  to  say  against  the 


girl  ? ' 

"  '  Nothing.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  a  charming  crea- 
ture, in  pinafores,  when  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  her  ac- 
quaintance. And  so  you  make  my  marrying  Miss  Whitby  the 
condition  of  my  returning  home  ?' 

"  *  How  can  you  dream  of  such  a  thing  ? '  he  said,  earnestly 
enough.  *  You  do  not  know  that  the  match  would  be  agree- 
able to  the  young  lady.  No.  I  merely  suggested  it  as  a  very 
desirable  thing ;  and  I  don't  see  what  is  to  interfere  with  such  an 
arrangement.  The  girl  is  a  most  amiable  girl,  according 
to  all  accounts;  and  the  marriage  would  be  a  most, sensible 
one.  My  dear  boy,  you  are  now  well  up  in  years — ' 

" '  Yes,  sir ;  and  I  have  acquired  very  fixed  notions  as  to 
what  it  is  worth  one's  while  to  live  for.  Oddly  enough,  these 
notions,  that  have  been  growing  upon  me,  are  rather  roman- 
tic. I  was  much  more  prosaic  at  twenty.  Then  I  had  a  pro- 
found admiration  for  great  wealth,  and  had  a  curious  sort 
of  belief  that  if  I  could  get  vast  sums  of  money,  I  should 
be  able  to  drink  proportionately  large  quantities  of  cham- 
pagne, and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  I  have  no  longer  any  am- 
bition that  way.  I  should  like  to  have  a  lot  of  money,  on  ac- 
count of  the  security  it  gives  one  in  accepting  certain  respon- 
sibilities; but  I  have  grown  sceptical  about  its  supreme 
power.  The  older  I  get,  the  more  romantic  I  get,  and  the 
more  absurd  become  my  notions  of  what  it  is  that  is  alone  of 
value  in  life.  Now,  if  you  were  to  offer  me  the  marquisate  of 
Westminster  on  condition  of  my  marrying  Miss  Whitby,  I 
should  find  no  difficulty  in  saying  No.' 

"  *  What  do  you  mean  ?  Have  you  anything  to  say  against 
the  girl  ? ' 

"  '  Nothing.  But  I  shall  prevent  your  wasting  more  time  by 
telling  you  how  the  case  stands.  A  good  many  years  ago  you 
practically  turned  me  out  of  your  house  because  I  wanted  to 
marry  a  girl  who  was  poor.  If  I  went  back  with  you  now,  I 
might  very  soon  find  myself  in  the  same  position  again — ' 

" '  Be  reasonable  ! '  cried  my  father,  '  Or  are  you  saying 
that  out  of  revenge  ? ' 

"  '  Certainly  not,'  I  answered.  '  During  these  few  years  I 
have  grown  so  accustomed  to  my  independent  ways  and  narrow 
means  that  I  had  forgotten  any  wish  to  find  myself  in  another 
condition.  I  was — I  am — quite  content,  and  quite  ready  to 
abide  as  I  am.  It  may  be  those  books  you  used  to  dislike, 
or  it  may  be  my  own  stupidity ;  but  I  am  quite  content.  I 


FA  TIIER  A  XD  SOX.  *  :  f 

have  also  thought  of  marrying;  and,  if  I  marry,  I  shall  murry 
a  girl  even  poorer  than  myself.' 

••  '  Good  God  !  are  you  mad  ? '  exclaimed  my  father. 

"  '  I  hope  not.  I  have  not  asked  her  to  marry  me — she  may 
want  to  marry  somebody  else,  for  aught  I  know.  She  is  an 
honest  woman ;  she  has  a  bright,  affectionate,  amiable  nature 
— just  the  sort  of  a  nature  to  sweeten  a  poor  man's  life  and  make 
it  pleasant  to  him  ;  and  she  is  a  good  deal  prettier  than  Miss 
Whitby,  I  dare  say,  though  that  is  not  of  so  much  conse- 
quence to  a  middle-aged  man.  If  she  will  marry  me,  I  shall 
look  forward  with  confidence  to  having  a  pleasant  and  intel- 
ligent companion— one  who  has  known  poverty,  and  can 
brave  it — one  who  is  not  afraid  of  the  chances  of  life — in 
short,  a  good,  pure,  honest,  affectionate  girl,  with  not  a  taint 
of  fashionable  ways  or  self-regarding  notions  about  her.' 

"  '  But  who  is  she  ? — what  is  she  ? ' 

"  '  Well,  sir,  she  is  at  present  a  model.' 

"  I  confess  to  you,  Ted,  that  I  had  been  looking  forward  to 
the  surprise  of  this  declaration  as  a  good  joke  (are  you  sur- 
prised, too,  old  man  ?),  and  was  inclined  to  be  highly  amused 
by  my  father's  consternation.  But  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
me  that  in  his  resentment  he  might  say  something  about  her 
that  I  should  have  to  remember  forever;  and  so  hastily 
added — 

"  *  Don't  be  alarmed,  sir.  Nothing  may  come  of  it.  In  the 
first  place,  I  shall  not  marry  until  I  have  enough  money  to 
make  a  small  provision  for  my  wife.  I  have  already  saved 
up  ,£800 — I  heard  that  you  sunk  more  than  that  on  the  north 
farm  last  year — and  I  am  working  hard  to  increase  the 
amount.  It  is  only,  as  yet,  a  dream  of  mine — a  fancy  that  I 
like  to  speculate  upon  ;  and  it  has  at  least  added  a  good  deal 
of  interest  to  my  work.' 

"  *  And  so,'  continued  my  father,  slowly,  '  you  actually  con- 
template marrying  a  model — a  woman — ' 

"  *  Pardon  me,  sir,'  I  broke  in,  '  but  if  you  will  reflect  that 
you  are  talking  about  her  who  may  be  my  wife,  you  will  see 
that  it  might  be  as  well  to  say  nothing  hastily.  Like  most 
outsiders,  you  may  have  mistaken  notions  about  models — I 
don't  know ;  but,  at  all  events,  it  is  premature  to  trouble 
yourself  about  the  matter.  I  suppose,  too,  there  won't  be 
much  use,  in  the  face  of  such  a  possibility,  in  our  talking 
further  about  that  arrangement  you  proposed  ? ' 

"With  that  he  broke  forth  suddenly — 

" '  What  ?  Do  you  think,  sir,  I  shall  let  you  bring  a  shame- 
less woman  into  my  house — a  woman  who  allows  herself  to — ' 


222  KILMENY. 

11  *  Stop  ! '  I  said.  '  We  are  no  longer  father  and  son,  but 
two  men.  You  turned  me  out  of  your  house  :  shall  I  turn  you 
out  of  mine  ?  By  heavens  !  if  you  utter  another  word  against 
that  girl,  you  shall  have  to  choose  between  the  stair  and  the 
window ! ' 

"  The  old  story,  Ted — the  old  story — hasty  words  and  angry 
passions,  to  be  remembered  and  regretted  for  many  a  day. 
But  who  should  appear  in  the  room  at  this  moment  but  Polly 
herself.  She  did  not  come  in.  She  stood  at  the  open  door, 
her  hand  on  the  handle,  her  face  white  as  death.  We  had 
been  speaking  sufficiently  loud ;  she  had  heard  everything  as 
she  came  up  the  stairs.  What  her  most  unexpected  errand 
had  been,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  the  coincidence  was  terrible. 

"Look  back  over  the  minute  account  I  have  written.  You 
will  see  that  her  name  was  never  mentioned.  But  in  the  sharp 
crisis  neither  she  nor  I  remembered  that :  we  both  took  every- 
thing for  granted.  I  went  forward  to  her,  and  said,  firmly — 

"  *  Come  in,  Polly.     It  is  better  you  should  hear  this  out.' 

"There  was  that  wild,  pitiful,  scared  look  on  her  face  that 
she  wore  the  evening  she  heard  her  drunken  mother's  ravings. 
I  was  overwhelmed  with  pity  for  her,  and  also  with  that 
ghastly  consciousness  of  powerlessness  to  retrieve  what  is 
past  redemption  that  crushes  a  man  sometimes. 

" '  I  have  heard  quite  enough,'  she  said,  with  a  strange 
calmness ;  *  and  I  came  in  to  let  you  know  that  I  heard  it.' 

" '  It  is  the  second  time  you  have  been  insulted  in  this 
room,'  I  said,  *  and,  please  Heaven,  it  shall  be  the  last.  The 
first  time  it  was  your  mother ;  now  it  is  my  father.  We  have 
got  rid  of  the  one ;  now  let  us  settle  with  the  other,  and  put 
the  matter  beyond  interference.  It  is  rather  odd  that  people 
should  have  to  talk  so  of  their  parents,  isn't  it  ?  But  it  happens 
sometimes.  And  so — ' 

" '  And  so,'  said  my  father,  '  this  is  the  young  lady  you 
mean  to  marry.  I  am  sorry,  miss,  that  you  heard  what  was 
said  ;  but — but — ' 

"  *  But  it  was  better  I  should,'  said  Polly,  quite  calmly ; 
*  because,  you  see,  I  can  remove  this  misunderstanding  be- 
tween you.  I  do  not  know  what  you  want  your  son  to  do  ; 
but  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  shall  be  no  hindrance  to  it, 
for  I  will  never  be  his  wife.' 

"  Then  she  went  to  the  door,  pale  and  self-possessed.  I 
thought  of  stopping  her ;  but  what  would  have  been  the  good  ? 
My  father  and  I  were  left  alone. 

"  *  Well,  sir,  are  you  satisfied  ? '  he  asked,  coldly. 

"  *  I  shall  be  when  you  leave  the  house,'  I  answered. 


i-ATHRR  AXD  SOX.  223 

"  *  Then  you  still  persist  in  your  determination  to  marry  a 
girl  whose  profession  must  at  least  put  her  under  the  ban  of 
suspicion  ? ' 

"  But  the  thought  of  the  poor  girl  going  out,  with  that  burn- 
ing sense  of  shame  around  her,  into  the  lonely  streets,  re- 
called me  to  my  senses.  I  snatched  a  cap,  left  my  father 
standing  there,  and  hurried  after  her. 

"  The  arrangement  you  made  when  you  left  has  proved  a 
comfortable  one ;  she  has  been  living  ever  since  with  your 
mother;  and  the  two  seemed  very  fond  of  each  other.  Of 
course,  I  could  not  go  up  there  so  often  as  I  did  when  you 
were  at  home ;  but  I  visited  the  small  household  occasionally, 
and  each  time  had  another  opportunity  of  noticing  Polly's 
obedient  and  daughter-like  ways,  and  your  mother's  affection 
for  her.  I  guessed  that  she  would  go  straight  there  on  leav- 
ing Granby  Street ;  and  I  hastened  around  to  your  house  by 
the  rout  I  fancied  she  would  take.  I  saw  nothing  of  her  on 
the  way.  When  I  got  to  the  house  I  asked  for  your  mother  ; 
and  I  was  shown  up  to  the  parlor,  which  was  empty.  In  a 
little  while  your  mother  came  into  the  room,  and  I  could  see 
by  the  expression  of  her  face  that  she  knew  everything,  and 
that  she  was  much  vexed  and  disturbed. 

"  «  Polly  has  told  you,'  I  said. 

"  '  Yes,'  she  answered  ;  '  you  cannot  fancy  how  bitterly 
your  father's  words  have  wounded  her.  You  know  how  she 
has  been  schooling  herself — learning  things — and  taking 
ever}'  opportunity  of  self-improvement.  Whether  she  had 
any  purpose  in  all  this  is  more  than  I  can  say ;  but  now  she 
is  cast  down  utterly,  and  wounded  far  more  deeply  than  you 
can  imagine.  I  have  appealed  to  her  self-respect ;  but  she 
has  been  so  deeply  humiliated  that  she  is  quite  prostrated. 
There  is  another  thing,  also.  She  blames  herself  for  hav- 
ing opened  the  door,  and  she  is  covered  with  shame  to 
think  that  she  should  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  you  and 
your  father  were  speaking  of  her.' 

"  4  But  we  were  speaking  of  her  :  and  she  must  have  known 
it.  What  is  to  be  done  to  relieve  the  poor  girl's  sufferings  ? 
1  know  how  sensitive  she  is ;  and  how  she  must  feel  all  this 
vexing  nonsense.  Tell  her  I  wish  to  see  her,  only  for  a 
minute.' 

"  *  If  you  were  to  see  her  now,  in  her  present  mood,  you 
would  make  the  thing  irrevocable,'  said  your  mother.  '  It 
may  be  so  as  it  is.' 

"  *  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

••  •  1   know  Polly  very  well — better  than  you  do.     Under 


224  KILMENY. 

her  happy  and  gcrod-natured  ways  there  lies  a  firm  will ;  and 
if  she  were  to  resolve  at  this  moment  that  she  will  never  see 
you  again,  she  would  keep  her  word.  Be  advised  :  leave  her 
to  herself.  I  will  do  what  I  can  to  help  you — that  is,  if  you 
think  you  will  be  happier  in  marrying  her  than  in  becoming 
a  rich  man.' 

"  Your  mother  said  this  with  a  peculiar  smile,  Ted,  that 
made  her  face  look  lovely,  and  yet  a  trifle  sad.  Does  she 
know  that  you  told  me  her  story  ? 

"  '  If  you  marry  her, '  she  added,  gravely  and  kindly,  '  you 
will  get  a  true  wife,  tender-hearted  and  honest,  whom  you 
will  be  always  able  to  trust,  who  will  be  the  same  to  you  in 
good  or  in  bad  circumstances.  And  you  will  get  a  wite  who 
will  look  up  to  you,  and  give  you  her  love  as  the  only  thing 
she  can  offer  you.  I  must  not  advise  you  to  do  it,  Mr. 
Heatherleigh.  There  may  be  great  inducements  on  the 
other  side  ;  and  there  are  people  who,  in  your  position,  would 
be  ruined  by  such  a  marriage.  But  you  are  no  longer  a 
very  young  man.  You  know  what  you  have  to  expect  in  life. 
You  must  make  your  choice.' 

"'My  choice  is  made — was  made  long  ago;  and  I  shall 
rely  upon  your  aid,'  I  said,  very  gratefully. 

"  When  I  got  out  into  the  open  air,  Ted,  it  seemed  to  have 
been  all  a  mistake  or  a  dream.  I  asked  myself  if  it  was  pos- 
sible that  people  should  permit  themselves  to  be  so  deeply 
vexed — should,  perhaps,  alter  all  their  plans  in  life — in  con- 
sequence of  half-a-dozen  words.  Why,  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  world  were  just  as  they  were  an  hour  before.  London 
had  got  a  little  nearer  its  dinner-time,  that  was  all.  Yet 
these  half-dozen  impalpable  words  had  knocked  our  lives 
completely  off  their  ordinary  axes  ;  and  were  likely  to  inter- 
fere with  the  future  in  a  very  remarkable  fashion.  I  fancied 
if  I  could  have  got  hold  of  Polly,  and  shown  her  the  absurd- 
ity of  vexing  herself  about  two  or  three  insignificant  words, 
resolvable  into  their  original  letters,  she  would  have  been 
willing  to  send  them  into  this  alphabetic  chaos,  and  pay 
them  no  further  attention.  These  words  had  altered  neither 
her  nor  me  nor  anything  :  why  heed  them  ?  They  had  not 
even  altered  to  the  extent  of  an  apple  the  stall  of  that  old 
woman  at  the  corner  to  whom  you  gave  the  five  shillings 
when  you  sold  your  picture.  Yet  with  women  words  are 
powerful. 

"  Nor  have  I  been  able  to  see  her  since.  She  was  to  have 
given  me  some  sittings  for  a  picture  I  have  just  begun,  yet 
she  has  never  made  her  appearance.  So  far  as  I  can  learn 


FATHER  A\n  SOX.  225 

she  has  sat  to  nobody  since  that  unlucky  forenoon.  I  can't 
get  a  glimpse  of  her.  I  have  called  twice  to  see  your  mother ; 
and,  on  both  occasions,  Polly,  who  was  in  the  house,  declined 
coming  down. 

"  You  will  say  this  is  very  absurd,  and  so  it  is.  But  I  am 
getting  to  be  somewhat  uneasy,  especially  as  your  mother 
looks  rather  grave  over  the  matter.  She  says  Polly's  deep 
hurt  is  far  from  being  healed,  and  that  the  girl  says,  quite 
calmly  and  fixedly,  that,  whatever  my  resolutions  may  be  as 
regards  my  father  and  myself,  nothing  will  interfere  with  her 
determination.  Your  mother,  I  suppose,  has  been  pleading 
my  cause,  and  Polly  only  replies — 

'"  *  I  have  still  some  self-respect  left.  It  is  not  necessary 
that  I  should  marry  anybody,  least  of  all  into  a  family  where 
I  should  be  despised.' 

"  If  she  would  only  let  me  see  her  for  a  few  minutes,  I 
think  I  could  reason  her  out  of  this  deplorable  resolution. 
Where  is  my  family,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  In  the  mean 
while  the  perplexity  of  the  position  harasses  me.  I  cannot 
work,  and  I  cannot  remain  idle  ;  I  cannot  even  read.  I 
have  tried  to  cut  my  anxiety  to  pieces  by  analysis,  but  I  have 
no  sooner  got  to  the  end  of  some  chapter  on  the  influence  of  the 
mental  emotions  on  the  vital  functions,  than  I  fling  the  con- 
founded book  aside,  and  wonder  whether  I  shall  ever  get  to 
see  Polly.  Even  Marcus  Aurelius,  whom  I  used  to  look  up- 
on as  a  charm  against  all  the  evils  of  life,  goads  me  into  fur}'. 
Many  a  time  have  I  looked  from  that  calm  and  lofty  pinnacle 
of  philosophy,  whence  all  human  ills  become  beautiful  objects 
of  contemplation,  but  then  they  were  the  ills  of  other  people 
that  I  was  contemplating.  '  All  that  is  from  the  gods  is  full 
of  providence,'  says  the  emperor,  but  it  may  also  be  full  of  pain. 

'*  One  thing  I  have  resolved  upon.  If  ever  I  get  the  chance, 
I  shall  marry  Polly  out  of  hand,  and  thereafter  there  will  be 
no  question  of  divided  interests.  Let  me  know  what  you 
think  of  the  whole  matter. 

"  I  have  selfishly  reserved  this  long  letter  for  my  own 
affairs,  and  I  can  only  add  a  line  to  say  with  what  anxiety 
your  friends  here  look  forward  to  your  next  work.  Te"ll  me 
how  your  studies,  so  far,  have  moulded  your  intentions. 
Your  sympathies  are  wholly  Northern,  I  think  ; — I  shall  never 
forget  your  scornful  and  unfair  contrast  between  the  Nibe- 
lungenlied  and  the  writings  of  poor  Chateaubriand.  You  are 
always  unjust  to  France  and  the  French,  while  your  strong 
natural  bent  for  Northern  simplicity,  naturalness,  and  rough, 
untrained  emotions  leads  you  to  overrate  what  is  crude  in 
is 


226  KILMENY. 

art.  Munich,  however,  is  a  city  of  eclecticism,  and  you  will 
probably  have  your  sympathies  widened.  When  you  get 
back  to  Munich,  I  wish  you  would  send  me  a  minule  descrip- 
tion of  whatever  of  Wohlgemuth's  work  you  can  find.  I  am 
curious,  and  a  little  sceptical,  about  Durer's  obligations  to 
him. 

"  Farewell !  I  will  address  a  brief  note  to  you  at  Inns- 
bruck." 

So  here  was  the  story  out  at  last.  I  was  not  much  sur- 
prised by  Heatherleigh's  announcement.  It  was  easy  to 
guess  that  something  very  important  must  have  occurred  to 
effect  such  a  complete  change  in  his  notions  and  habits  as 
he  had  recently  exhibited.  The  Heatherleigh  of  this  later 
period  was  very  unlike,  in  many  things,  the  easy-going, 
indolent  Heatherleigh  of  other  years,  who  used  to  lounge 
about  in  his  roughly  epicurean  fashion  ;  at  times  sharply 
interrupting  his  Bohemain  life  by  fits  of  splendor  and  extrav- 
agance. It  was  easy  to  guess  that  Heatherleigh  meant  to  do 
something  with  the  money  which  he  was  now  so  industri- 
ously hoarding ;  for  the  notion  of  Heatherleigh  hoarding 
money  for  his  own  use  or  satisfaction  was  too  preposterous 
to  be  entertained  for  a  moment. 

Nor  could  there  be  much  doubt  about  the  way  in  which 
Polly  would  otherwise  have  regarded  his  proposal.  I  fancied 
she  had  read  his  secret,  and  was  as  busily,  though  with  far 
greater  shyness  and  closeness,  preparing  for  the  marriage, 
as  he  himself.  I  saw  in  these  various  efforts  at  self-improve- 
ment she  was  so  laboriously  making,  so  many  honest  and 
praiseworthy  efforts  to  make  herself  more  worthy  of  the 
man  whom  she  loved.  My  mother  took  care  never  to 
hint  anything  of  the  kind.  She  praised  Polly's  industry, 
and  to  us,  when  Polly  was  absent,  she  was  never  tired  of 
of  eulogizing  the  girl's  sweetness  of  temper,  and  general 
brightness  and  cleverness. 

"  She  is  one  in  a  thousand,"  she  used  to  say.  "  Who 
could  have  expected  to  find  a  girl  brought  up  all  her  life  in 
London  so  winning  in  her  fearless,  simple  ways  ?  She  has 
the  cleverness  of  the  town,  and  the  natural  frankness  and 
good-nature  of  the  country,  and  whoever  marries  her  will 
marry  a  good,  honest  woman." 

It  did  seem  hard  that  these  two,  so  cunningly  preparing 
for  a  long,  life  partnership — laying  in  stores,  as  it  were, 
wherewith  to  furnish  their  nest  when  the  happy  spring-time 
came — should  thus  be  separated.  But  I  knew  Polly's 


7V 'IE  SONG  OF  WOL I \\7)f  'A'.  227 

extreme  sensitiveness,  and  her  indomitable  firmness,  and  I 
\\;is  a  good  deal  less  surprised  than  apprehensive  in  reading 
Heatherleigh's  story  of  what  had  happened. 

Her  position  was  by  far  the  more  painful  of  the  two.  I 
could  imagine  the  poor  girl  brooding  over  the  cruel  wound 
that  had  been  dealt  to  her  self-respect,  and  resolving  that 
there  was  but  one  way  in  which  she  could  clear  herself  in 
her  own  eyes.  It  was  a  cruel  method  of  repelling  an  unjust 
accusation,  whichever  way  she  resolved.  I  knew  that  she 
must  be  suffering  with  all  the  keenness  of  pain  that  accom- 
panies a  deeply  sensitive  nature  ;  and  when  I  went  up-stairs 
to  bed  that  night,  and  looked  out  and  saw,  above  the  misty 
waters  of  the  Constance  lake,  the  far  constellations  of  the 
northern  heavens,  I  fancied  those  cold  stars  were  shining 
down  upon  the  huddled  darkness  of  London,  and  I  knew 
that  they  saw  few  more  unhappy  faces  there  than  the  pleasant 
one  that  Heatherleigh  loved. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   SONG   OF   WOLUNDUR. 

"  You  see,"  remarked  the  Professor,  "  it  is  our  only  Ger- 
man lake ;  and  therefore  we  are  very  proud  of  it.  And  is  it 
not  a  noble  lake  ?  " 

He  might  well  say  so.  We  were  standing  on  a  little  height 
outside  the  town — the  huddled  white  houses,  spires,  and 
boats  of  Constance  on  our  right — and  there  before  us  lay 
the  long  lake,  an  intense  pale  blue,  so  clear  and  still  that 
the  square-sailed  little  boats,  which  caught  the  sunlight  on 
their  yellow  canvas,  seemed  to  hand  in  mid-air.  Out  into 
this  blue  ran  wooden  promontories ;  the  green  bays  between, 
with  their  occasional  villa,  being  faintly  mirrored  in  the 
smooth  water.  And  then,  far  beyond  the  jutting  points  of 
Romanshorn  and  Friedrichshafen,  overlooking  the  lake,  and 
yet  appearing  strangely  distant  in  the  white  haze  of  the 
morning  sunlight,  the  grand  range  of  the  Vorarlberg  mount- 
ains, with  the  jagged  Kurfirsten  and  the  snow-flecked  Sentis 
down  in  the  south. 

We  remained  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Constance  for 
three  days,  filling  our  portfolios  with  sketches.  Certainly 
there  was  no  lack  of  material ;  for  the  autumn  was  now 
wearing  on,  and  the  mists  that  hung  about  the  lake  and  the 


223  KILMENY. 

mountains  in  the  morning,  or  gathered  over  in  the  evening, 
produced  a  constant  series  of  new  effects.  Vogl  was  a  lover 
of  mist.  He  used  to  describe  the  strange  white  clouds  that 
sometimes  hang  over  the  dark  firs  of  the  Black  Forest, 
even  when  the  morning  sunlight  is  lying  yellow  on  the 
valleys,  and  falling  here  and  there  into  the  wet  woods.  He 
used  to  describe  the  wonderful  stillness  of  the  forest  under 
this  white  canopy,  that  just  touches  the  tops  of  the  dark 
trees,  leaving  a  sort  of  twilight  underneath,  where  the  air  is 
moist  and  laden  with  resinous  odors ;  how  you  go  in  among 
the  moss  and  brackens  that  are  heavy  with  dew,  expecting 
at  every  footfall  to  startle  a  wild-eyed  roe;  and  how  the 
clouds  slowly  gather  themselves  together  and  draw  upwards 
to  the  hill-tops,  as  if  they  were  covering  the  stealthy  flight 
of  Diana,  when  she  has  left  Endymion,  "  pale  with  her  last 
kiss,"  to  waken  in  the  cold  morning  freshness. 

"  I  paid  Lena  out  for  her  impudence,"  said  Vogl  to  me 
privately,  as  we  sailed  down  the  lake  to  Bregenz. 

"How?" 

"  I  wrote  her  a  short  note  in  the  broadest  Black  Forest 
dialect,  and  she  will  puzzle  over  it  for  days.  It  is  even 
worse  when  written  than  when  spoken.  What  would  you 
make  of  this,  for  example  ?  " 

He  put  a  bit  of  paper  on  his  zither-case,  resting  it  on  the 
paddle-box,  and  wrote — "  Ech  woas  QS  nit,  wenn  i  ka  Zagarta 
kuma,  darno  will  der's  saga,  wegem  Schoppa  biatza,  i  kinnt 
jetzt  cho  kuma,  aber  i  ha  nit  der  Wiel,  du  haschmer  au  scho 
en  manga  G'falle  than."  * 

"  It  is  a  very  good  conundrum,"  I  said,  "  but  I  give  it  up. 
And  I  don't  envy  you  when  you  come  to  read  the  answer 
that  Lena  will  send  you." 

"Nothing  keeps  Lena  a  quiet  and  good  little  girl  like  the 
zither.  So  soon  as  she  gets  away  from  the  charm  of  it,  she 
is  wild,  impudent,  untractable.  But  she  will  make  a  good 
little  wife,  will  Lenele,  when  we  grow  old  enough  to  marry." 

"  What  does  the  Herr  Professor  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  He  does  not  care.  I  suppose  he  does  not  know  that 
we  are  sweethearts.  Yet  he  knows  that  she  writes  to  me, 
and  I  to  her ;  and  that  we  go  out  together  always." 

"  And  the  Frau  Mamma  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  is  a  good,  homely  woman.     She  has  friends  in 

*  Which,  in  ordinary  German,  would  be  something  like  this:  "  Ich 
weiss  es  nicht,  wenn  ich  auf  Besuch  kommen  kann  ;  dann  will  ich  dir's 
sagen,  wegen  dem  Kittel  flicken.  Ich  konnte  jetzt  schon  kommen,  aber 
ich  habe  keine  Zeit ;  du  hast  mir  auch  schon  manchen  Gefallen  gethan." 


THE  SOA'G  OF  U'OLL'XDUK.  229 

Waldshm,  and  they  know  that  my  father  is  pretty  well  cff. 
The  Mutterlt'in  will  make  no  objections." 

••  And  the  Fraulein  Caroline  herself?" 

"  I  am  puzzled,"  said  Franz,  with  a  comic  look  of  bewil- 
derment. "  Lena  is  a  Will-o'-the-Wisp.  I  can't  catch  her. 
She  won't  talk  seriously.  But  being  sweethearts  with  her  is 
very  pleasant,  and  if  she  won't  marry  me,  I  can't  help  it. 
If  she  marries  anybody  else,  I  must  take  to  singing  all  the 
heart-broken  songs  ;  but  I  sha'n't  break  my  own  heart  for 
all  that.  I  was  not  made  for  it,  lieber  Freund"  he  added, 
gayly ;  "  love  affairs  will  never  interfere  with  my  liking  for 
*  Falscher  Vogel,'  stewed  apples,  and  red  wine." 

"  Yet  you  could  support  the  character  of  a  heart-broken 
lover  so  well — you  could  fly  away  from  the  sound  of  the 
mill-wheel  and  become  a  minstrel,  and  wander  up  and  down 
the  world,  singing  from  house  to  house." 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "when  I  hear  the  song  of  the  broken 
ring,  I  begin  to  fancy  there  is  some  truth  in  all  that  busi- 
ness of  love  and  despair." 

I  looked  at  the  zither-case  ;  I  knew  he  could  not  help 
turning  his  hand  to  it.  Only  speak  of  songs,  and  Franz 
mechanically  began  to  undo  the  leather  strap,  and  pull  out 
the  zither,  and  touch  the  strings.  This  time  he  played  the 
pretty  Tyrolese  waltz  that  Donizetti  has  introduced  into 
"  La  Figlia  del  Reggimento,"  and  then  the  music  somehow 
led  him  into  the  old  Tyrolese  song  that  I  have  already 
mentioned — 

"  Herzig's  Schatzerl,  lass  dich  her/en, 
Ich  vergeh'  vor  Liebesschmerzen, 
Und  du  weisst  es  ja  zu  wohl 
Dass  ich  dich  ewig  lieben  soil !  " 

He  sang  it  almost  to  himself;  and  the  simple  pathetic 
melody  was  mingled  with  the  sound  of  the  paddle-wheels,  as 
we  churned  our  way  through  the  blue  waters  down  to 
Bregenz. 

All  during  this  beautiful  time  I  was  haunted  in  a  way  that 
is  scarcely  expressible  in  words  by  the  imagined  presence  of 
Hester  Burnham.  Quite  in  spite  of  myself,  I  kept  continually 
picturing  her  as  she  would  appear  if  some  miracle  were  to 
bring  her  into  the  same  boat  or  the  same  hotel.  Then  would 
follow  long  imaginary  talks  with  her;  and  visions  of  the 
wonder  of  her  eyes  and  the  delight  of  her  face  as  something 
especially  beautiful  came  in  our  way.  I  got  to  look  at  every- 
thing just  as  if  she  were  by  my  side ;  and  I  judged  of  it  as 


230  KILMENY. 

she  would  be  likely  to  judge  of  it.  Now,  when  I  look  back 
upon  this  journey,  it  seems  as  if  the  whole  of  it  were  imbued 
with  her  presence.  I  cannot  think  of  that  steamboat  on  the 
lake  without  seeming  to  see  there  a  small  figure,  dressed  in 
black,  with  a  certain  graceful  and  queenly  carriage  about  it, 
with  a  strange  honesty  and  tenderness  in  the  eyes,  and  a 
calm,  wistful  beauty  in  the  dark  clear  face.  Indeed,  so  deep- 
rooted  had  this  habit  become,  that  I  should  not  have  been  in 
the  least  surprised  had  I  in  reality  encountered  her.  So  far 
as  the  influence  of  her  presence  was  concerned,  she  was 
actually  there,  with  me,  wherever  I  went.  I  began  to  forget 
that  it  could  only  be  by  a  sort  of  miracle  that  we  should  meet. 
I  came  down-stairs  in  the  morning,  half  expecting  to  hear  her 
voice  at  the  breakfast-table ;  and  then  I  used  to  feel  a  kind 
of  accepted  disappointment  in  seeing  that  the  room  was 
empty.  When  I  saw  at  any  distance  a  girlish  figure  dressed 
something  like  an  English  lady,  it  was  with  a  secret  hope 
that  I  drew  nearer.  Why  was  it  so  impossible  we  should 
meet  ?  Why  should  she  not  come  this  way  for  her  autumn 
tour ;  and  then,  some  morning,  as  I  go  down  and  into  the 
large  bare  apartment,  with  its  long  table  and  rows  of  cups 
and  napkins,  lo !  standing  at  the  window,  with  her  face  half- 
hidden  in  the  light,  the  lady  of  many  dreams  ? 

What  shall  I  do?  Why,  you  know,  we  are  in  Germany 
now !  England  and  its  coldness,  its  harsh  ways  and  cruel 
thoughts,  are  gone  from  us.  This  is  the  home  of  the  old 
romances ;  and  the  breath  of  this  land  tells  you  even  now 
that  a  woman's  love  is  something  better  than  money,  and 
better  worth  striving  for.  I  go  forward  to  her.  I  say, 
"  Hester,  I  dared  not  tell  you  in  England  that  I  loved  you : 
here  in  Germany,  I  must  tell  you.  Will  you  give  me  your 
love  in  return  for  mine  ?  Will  you  be  my  wife,  and  let  us  go 
away  together,  our  backs  upon  England,  into  the  green 
valleys  of  the  Tyrol  ?  We  are  free  here ;  and  I  think  we 
love  each  other  very  dearly."  I  can  see  a  look  of  heaven  in 
her  eyes.  She  puts  her  hand  upon  mine,  light  as  the  touch 
of  a  rose-leaf,  and  says,  with  that  strange  smile  of  hers,  "  We 
do  love  each  other :  why  should  we  not  always  be  together  ? " 

Ach,  Gott !  These  were  the  pictures  that  hovered  before 
my  eyes  during  all  this  journey.  Strange,  too,  that  in  these 
day-dreams  she  always  appeared  alone.  I  never  granted  for 
a  moment  the  presence  of  any  one  else.  And  doubtless  the 
small  girlish  figure  seemed  rather  solitary  at  this  time — the 
only  mistress  of  the  great  house  at  Burnham,  with  no  near 
relations,  with  few  companions,  and  leading  all  by  herself  a 


THE  SONG  OF  WOLUNDUR.  -31 

quiet  country  life,  attending  to  her  duties,  with  apparently  no 
wish  to  alter  the  current  of  her  existence.  That  small  lady 
was  a  striking  figure  to  me;  and  the  great  woods  of  Burnham, 
and  the  loneliness  of  the  Burnham  valley,  made  her  individu- 
ality, her  solitariness,  all  the  more  vivid  and  distinct. 

My  constant  thought  was,  if  I  could  only  meet  her  here, 
apart  from  all  the  old  associations  that  separated  us  in 
England,  I  would  venture  everything  upon  one  effort  to  win 
her.  Differences  of  social  position  may  be  something  in  the 
west  of  London ;  but  they  are  nothing  in  front  of  the  lonely 
mountains  of  the  Vorarlberg,  or  even  at  the  common  break- 
fast-table of  a  remote  Tyrolese  inn. 

Nor  was  there  any  bitterness  in  the  thought  that  these 
dreams  were  delusions.  In  England  they  would  have  been 
very  bitter — the  aspirations  after  a  happiness  too  clearly 
impossible.  But  here  in  Germany  I  had  grown  bold.  It 
was  no  longer  impossible — this  beautiful,  though  distant 
dream,  that  ringed  the  vague  future  with  a  band  of  burnished 
gold.  Delusive,  doubtless,  in  the  mean  time  ;  but  who  could 
tell  what  the  coming  years  might  bring  forth  ?  And  as  I 
looked  forward  to  them  in  this  spirit — a  spirit  that  had 
grown  strong  and  hopeful  with  much  joyous  living — I  was 
not  curious  to  ask  which  of  the  pale  years  should  be  singled 
out  from  its  fellows  to  be  smitten  with  the  radiance  of  the 
dawn.  It  would  come  in  good  time  ;  and  it  always  lay  ahead. 

That  evening  I  heard,  but  indirectly,  from  England,  the 
Professor  having  had  some  letters  forwarded  from  Munich, 
among  them  one  from  Mr.  Webb.  We  were  now  in  the  brisk 
little  town  of  Bregenz,  which  lies  at  the  southern  end  of  the 
lake,  under  the  shadow  of  the  rocky  and  wooded  hills  above ; 
and  we  had  caught  our  first  glimpse  of  the  picturesque  cos- 
tume of  the  Tyrol.  As  we  walked  along  to  the  inn,  we  over- 
took a  smart,  dark-faced  little  woman,  who  was  slowly  driv- 
ing home  her  cows — those  beautiful  little  animals,  with  large 
mild  eyes,  and  pretty  dun-gray  hides,  which  one  meets  every- 
where among  the  Tyrolese  valleys. 

"  What  sort  of  skin  is  that  hat  made  of  ?  "  I  asked,  looking 
at  a  large  beehive-looking  thing  she  wore,  which  had  a  shin- 
ing deep-brown  color,  like  the  skin  of  a  bear. 

"  Shall  I  ask  her  ?  "  said  Franz,  gayly. 

"  Yes." 

"  Fraulein,"  he  said,  going  up  to  her  and  gallantly  taking 
off  his  hat,  "  a  Mr.  Englishman  wants  to  know  what  sort  of 
skin  your  pretty  hat  is  made  of." 

The  little  woman  turned  upon  him,  sharp  as  a  needle. 


232  K1LMENY. 

"  Not  of  an  ass's  skin,  so  you've  no  concern  with  it,"  she 
said,  with  a  look  of  courageous  anger. 

Silber  burst  into  a  loud  guffaw ;  but  Franz  was  not  much 
taken  aback. 

"  It  was  a  compliment,  Fraulein,  to  your  fine  wool ;  and 
you  shouldn't  be  so  snappish  with  stranger's." 

"  You  shouldn't  be  so  ready  with  your  jokes,  Mr.  English- 
man." 

"  Lieber  Himmel !  she  takes  me  for  an  Englishman  !  "  said 
Franz.  "  Why  !  I  haven't  offered  her  money  for  a  cup  of 
water ;  nor  has  she  seen  me  laughing  at  the  costume  of  a 
priest  or  a  nun." 

But  the  small  Tyrolese  woman  went  away  in  high  dudgeon  ; 
and  doubtless  treasures  a  grudge  against  the  English  nation 
until  this  day. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  when  we  had  gathered  around 
the  fire,  the  Professor  pulled  Mr.  Webb's  letter  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  said  slyly — 

"  Gentlemen,  it  is  always  good,  when  one  of  our  small  com- 
pany earns  praises,  that  the  rest  should  know  it.  I  propose 
to  translate  into  German  for  you  a  letter  I  have  received 
from  an  English  gentleman  respecting  a  picture  that  has  been 
done  by  one  of  us,  and  that  has  made  a  stir  even  in  so  un- 
impressionable a  country  as  England." 

The  letter  was  about  "  Kilmeny,"  and  need  not  be  further 
noticed  here.  Neither  the  Professor  nor  my  fellow-students 
had  heard  of  this  picture ;  and  I  had  to  answer  many  ques- 
tions about  it.  Franz  was  too  curious  about  the  lady  of  whom 
Mr.  Webb  incidentally  spoke,  as  having  suggested  the  face  ; 
and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  tell  Franz  to  be  less  curi- 
ous. So  he  only  murmured  under  his  breath — 

"  Die  Dame,  die  ich  liebe,  nenn'  ich  nicht," 

and  made  a  wry  face  at  Silber,  who  was  puffing  his  large 
student's  pipe,  and  thoughtfully  passing  his  fingers  through 
his  long  yellow  hair. 

"My  friend  in  England,"  continued  the  Professor,  "sends 
you  very  good  wishes,  and  hopes  you  will  let  him  know  what 
you  mean  to  paint  next,  when  our  present  trip  is  over. 
Have  you  thought  of  a  subject  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  tell  us  about  it." 

"  With  pleasure,  if  it  is  of  the  least  interest  to  you.  It  is 
merely  the  story  of  Wolundur — the  Volundarktiidha" 


THE  SOXG  OF  WOLUNDUR.  233 

"  My  remembrance  of  those  old  sagas  is  very  faint  now," 
said  the  Professor.  "  Pray  tell  us  the  story." 

"Yes,"  said  Silber,  "tell  us  the  story  altogether,  for  I 
don't  know  one  of  them." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I ;  "  but  I  cannot  vouch  for  the  accuracy 
of  my  memory." 

So  I  told  them  the  story  in  this  wise  : 

"There  were  three  brothers,  sons  of  the  King  of  Finland, 
named  Slagfidr,  Egil,  and  Wolundur.  They  went  away  over 
the  ice,  on  a  hunting  expedition,  and  they  came  to  Wolfsthal, 
and  they  built  houses.  Near  to  Wolfsthal  is  the  VVolfssee, 
and  early  one  morning  they  found  near  the  borders  of  the 
the  lake  three  maidens,  who  were  spining  flax.  Two  were 
daughters  of  King  Lodwer ;  but  the  third,  who  was  called 
Alhwit  (All-white),  was  the  daughter  of  Kiar  von  Walland. 
The  three  brothers  took  the  three  maidens  home  with  them  ; 
Slagfidr  and  Egil  marrying  the  King's  daughters,  while  the 
maiden  Alhwit  became  the  wife  of  Wolundur. 

"  Now  Wolundur  had  more  knowledge  of  all  the  arts  than 
any  other  man  ;  and  he  made  many  beautiful  gold  bracelets, 
and  hung  them  up  in  his  house.  But  after  they  had  spent 
seven  winters  together,  the  three  sisters  fled  away  '  in  search 
of  their  fate  ; '  and,  while  Slagfidr  and  Egil  went  to  seek  their 
wives,  Wolundur  remained  at  home,  fashioning  his  cunning 
bracelets  and  rings,  and  waiting  for  his  young  wife  to  come 
back  to  him. 

"  All  this  became  known  to  Nidudr,  the  King  of  Sweden  ; 
and  when  he  heard  that  Wolundur  lived  alone  in  the  Wolfsthal, 
he  took  some  men  with  him  and  went  there  by  night,  and 
bound  Wolundur  while  he  was  asleep,  and  stole  his  sword 
and  a  beautiful  gold  ring.  When  Wolunder  missed  the  ring, 
he  thought  that  Alhwit  had  taken  it  with  her.  The  sword 
King  Nidudr  kept  to  himself,  and  the  ring  he  gave  to  his 
brown-lovely  (braunschonc]  daughter  Bodwild. 

"  But  the  queen  said,  *  When  he  sees  the  sword  and  the 
ring,  Wolundur's  mouth  will  water,  and  his  eyes  will  burn.' 

"  '  Wild  gluh'n  die  Augen 
Dem  gleissenden  Wurm.' 

"  And  she  bade  her  husband  go  and  cut  the  sinews  of 
the  hero's  knees,  and  place  him  in  an  island,  so  that  he  might 
not  wreak  vengeance  upon  them.  And  this  was  done  ;  and 
the  king  put  him  into  a  smithy,  where  he  was  kept  making 
jewels  and  treasures  for  the  royal  household.  Then  Wolun- 


234  KILMENY. 

dur  saw  that  the  king  wore  the  sword  that  had  belonged  to 
him,  and  he  saw  that  Bodwild  wore  the  red  gold  ring  of  his 
beloved  Alhwit ;  and  he  swore  to  be  revenged,  for  he  fancied 
they  had  murdered  his  young  wife. 

""The  king's  sons,  two  boys,  came  playing  near  the  smithy, 
and  Wolundur  seized  upon  them,  and  hewed  their  heads  off. 
Then  the  maiden  Bodwild  came,  and  she  brought  the  red 
ring  of  Wolundur's  beloved  that  he  might  mend  it.  Then  he 
said  he  would  mend  it,  and  the  king's  daughter  sat  down  in 
a  chair,  and  he  cunningly  gave  her  mead  to  drink,  so  that  she 
slept. 

"  '  Wohl  mir,'  sprach  Wolundur, 
'  War'  ich  auf  den  Sehnen, 

Die  mir  Nidudurs 

Manner  nahmen.' 

"Bodwild  went  home,  weeping  bitterly  over  the  fierce 
wrong  that  had  been  done  to  her ;  but  Wolundur  went  into 
the  open  air  and  laughed  aloud.  And  the  king  came  to  him, 
and  asked  where  were  his  two  boys.  '  Swear  to  me  first,'  says 
Wolundur,  *  that  you  have  not  killed  my  bride.'  Wolundur 
tells  the  king  that  he  has  cut  his  sons'  heads  off;  that  he  has 
rimmed  the  skulls  with  silver  for  a  present  to  the  king ;  that 
he  has  changed  the  eyes  into  jewels  for  the  false  wife  of  the 
king;  that  he  has  made  of  the  teeth  breast-jewels  for  the 
king's  daughter.  But  the  heaviest  blow  of  his  vengeance  is  to 
come ;  for  the  king  bids  them  bring  his  brown-lovely,  ring- 
encrusted  daughter,  and  demands  of  her  if  she  sat  an  hour 
with  Wolundur  in  the  island.  And  Bodwild  answers  very 
sorrowfully — 

"  '  Wahr  ist  das,  Nidudur, 
Was  man  dir  sagte  : 
Ich  sass  mit  Wolundur 
Zusammen  im  Holm 
Hatte  nie  sein  sollen ! '  " 

"  I  remember  the  story,"  said  the  professor.  "  It  is  a  ter- 
rible one.  And  what  scene  do  you  propose  to  take  ? " 

"  That  of  the  island  smithy,  with  the  maimed  hero,  dark 
and  revengeful,  looking  at  his  wife's  ring,  which  the  king's 
daughter  brings  to  him." 

"  It  is  a  grand  position,"  said  Franz  ;  "  and  I  would  have 
the  king's  daughter  looking  young  and  beautiful,  and  inno- 
cent of  the  crime." 

"  Then  people  will  ask  why  she  should  suffer  for  the  wick- 
edness of  her  father  and  mother,"  said  Silber. 


/'///•:  A<O.VC/  o/-'  ll '( >/.  /  rNDL  'A'.  235 

"  Let  them  ask  !  "  said  Fran/.  "  We  don't  say  who  is  right 
and  who  is  wrong.  We  tell  the  story  of  old  and  hard  times, 
in  which  a  man's  family  was  a  part  of  his  wealth,  and  you 
robbed  him  that  way  as  soon  as  any  other,  if  you  wanted 
to  be  revenged." 

"That  is  very  well  said — very  good,"  remarked  the  Pro- 
fessor. "  You  tell  the  story,  and  let  the  audience  sympathize 
with  whom  it  pleases.  The  most  prominent  figure  of  a  pict- 
ure or  a  drama  is  not  necessarily  the  hero.  I  think  the  sub- 
ject is  a  good  one,  if  treated  carefully.  But  it  must  be  nei- 
ther sentimental  nor  melodramatic.  What  do  you  say,  Franz 
— shall  we  make  the  subject  a  class-subject,  and  give  Herr 
Edward  the  benefit  of  all  out  suggestions  ?  " 

"  Capital !  "  said  Franz.  "  And  then,  after  we  have  done 
what  we  can  for  him  in  the  way  of  helping  the  composition, 
we  must  get  the  proper  models  for  him.  I  have  them  in  my 
eye  just  now." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Why,  our  good  friend  Silber  will  stand  for  WTolundur, 
and  one  might  hope  to  gain  the  kind  assistance  of  Fraulein 
Riedel— " 

"  I  beg  you  will  not  mention  Fraulein  Riedel's  name," 
said  Silber,  with  a  sudden  and  angry  flush. 

"  No  offence,"  said  Franz,  with  a  provoking  calmness ;  "  I 
was  not  aware  you  were  so  much  interested  in  the  lady." 

"  I  am  not  interested." 

"  Who  is  the  Fraulein  Riedel  ?  "  asked  the  Professor,  ap- 
parently to  smooth  the  matter  down. 

"  Herr  Professor,"  observed  Franz,  "  the  Fraulein  Riedel 
is — a  lady.  I  hope  one  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  even  in 
the  presence  of  my  good  friend  Silber." 

The  Professor  laughed  heartily,  and  the  matter  dropped. 
This  Fraulein  Riedel  was  a  young  lady  who  played  and 
sang  in  the  burlesques  and  operettas  of  the  Volkstheater  in 
Munich — a  theatre  which  the  Professor  was  not  likely  to 
visit.  Silber  maintained  hotly  that  many  a  worse  singer  and 
actress  appeared  as  prima  donna  in  the  Hoftheater;  and 
that  some  day  the  Fraulein  would  sing  there  too. 

"  She  knows  the  whole  of  the  part  of  Rezia  in  '  Oberon,'  " 
he  used  to  say  proudly ;  "  for  I  have  been  permitted  to  hear 
her  sing  it ;  and  I  doubt  not  she  is  equally  familiar  with  the 
rest  of  your  grand  operas.  But  I  believe  you  only  affect  to 
despise  Offenbach,  because  he  is  new,  and  French." 

There  was  really  some  romance  in  connection  with  this 
affair.  Silber  had  fallen  desperately  in  love  with  the  Fraulein 


236  KILMENY. 

when  he  first  saw  her,  in  some  small  town  near  the  Rhine, 
play  the  heroine  of  our  English  farce  "  The  Rough  Dia- 
mond," which  Alexander  Bergen  has  translated.  "  Ein  un- 
geschliffener  Diamant"  was  too  much  for  the  young  student, 
\vho  never  forgot  "  Margaretha  von  Immargrun's  "  black 
eyes  and  hair.  Three  years  passed,  and  he  had  almost  for- 
gotten Fraulein  Riedel,  when  whom  should  he  see  walking 
along  the  Karlsplatz,  in  Munich,  but  the  same  girl  who  had 
struck  his  fancy  as  the  young  Baroness  von  Immergrun.  He 
followed  her — all  the  way  to  the  Volkstheater,  where  he  saw 
her  enter.  He  looked  at  the  bill — Fraulein  Riedel  was  an- 
nounced to  appear  in  an  operetta  that  evening.  Silber,  went 
and  renewed  his  thrall.  By  and  by  he  managed  to  get  ac- 
quainted with  her  ;  and  he  was  beside  himself  with  joy  when 
she  allowed  him  to  present  her  with  a  bracelet.  One  clay  he 
ventured  to  propose  a  walk,  and  she  kindly  consented.  They 
crossed  the  Maximilian  Bridge  and  passed  along  the  leafy 
avenues  of  the  "  new  pleasure  grounds  "  on  the  banks  of  the 
Isar ;  then  they  went  down  by  Brunnthal,  and  again  crossed 
the  river  by  the  wooden  bridge  which  abuts  on  the  Tivoli 
gardens.  Now,  as  it  happened,  Franz  and  I,  who  had  been 
dragged  by  Silber  many  times  to  the  theater  to  look  at  Frau- 
lein Riedel,  happened  to  be  sitting  under  the  Tivoli  trees, 
with  some  beer  on  the  small  table  before  us. 

"  Du  Himmel ! "  exclaimed  Franz,  "  there  is  Silber,  with 
his  Schatzchen  of  the  Volkstheater !  " 

And  so  it  was.  Silber  saw  us,  gave  us  a  grave  bow,  and 
passed  sedately  on.  How  proud  he  looked  !  It  was  from 
this  time  that  he  cultivated  more  and  more  the  student  ap- 
pearance— wearing  his  fair  hair  long  and  smooth,  sporting 
blue  caps  with  prodigious  gold  tassels,  smoking  preposterous 
pipes,  talking  metaphysics,  of  which  he  did  not  even  know 
the  terminology,  and  drinking  beer  in  quantities  that  disagreed 
with  him. 

"  Silber  is  a  vast  and  uncommon  humbug,"  Franz  used  to 
say;  "but  that  little  girl  with  the  black  eyes  believes  in  him. 

I  think  she  was  quite  a  respectable  little  woman,  and  did 
her  best  to  keep  him  from  drinking  useless  quantities  of  beer 
— a  feat  he  never  sought  to  perform,  except  that  he  might 
boast  of  it  to  her.  She  was  evidently  impressed  by  his  as- 
suming the  character  of  the  careless,  happy,  brave,  and  withal 
lovable  student  who  figures  on  the  stage.  Why  could  she, 
familiar  with  acting,  not  see  that  this  stupendous  ass  was 
only  acting  ?  That  was  always  a  mystery  to  Franz  and  me  ; 
for  we  did  not  believe  that  the  Fraulein  was  in  love  with  him. 


THE  SOXG  OJ<    ll\)LL\\'l)L'K.  237 

"  How  many  glasses  of  beer  have  you  drunk,  Silber  ?  " 
Franz  used  to  ask. 

"  Five." 

"Is  that  all?" 

«Y 

"  Fraulein  Rieclel  will  despise  you." 

"  Himmel  sapperment !  "  Silber  would  growl ;  as  much  as 
to  say,  "Another  word  and  I  challenge  you,  ohne  Mutzen, 
ohnc  Sccundanten" 

"  I  will  make  you  a  proposal." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Pay  for  three  more  glasses  of  beer.  I  drink  them. 
Then  you  go  to  Fraulein  Riedel,  and  say,  *  Admire  me  :  I  have 
drunk  eight  glasses  of  beer  ! '  ' 

With  which  Silber  used  to  become  furious,  and  declare  that 
if  we  were  in  Heidelberg  Franz  would  not  be  so  bold. 

I  could  forgive  Silber  everything  except  his  singing.  Of 
course,  he  fancied  that  he  ought  to  sing  the  "  Burschenlieder," 
to  support  the  character ;  and  he  used  to  sing  the  jovial  and 
jolly  student-songs  with  an  affected  swagger  which  was  at 
once  ludicrous  and  irritating.  One  could  not  help  being 
amused  by  Silber's  peculiar  method  of  leering  at  the  humor- 
ous passages,  nor  vexed  to  hear  the  fine  and  manly  songs 
burlesqued  by  this  poor,  conceited  wind-bag.  Kotzebue's 
"  Bundeslied "  was  one  of  his  favorites,  as  was  also  the 
universal  "  Gaudeamus  igitur,"  which  Franz  used  to  alter  in 
this  way — 

"  Gaudeamus  igitur, 
Juvenes  dum  sumus, 
Post  jucundam  juventutem, 
Per  molestam  senectutem, 
Nos  habebit  conjux." 

A  sorer  trial,  however,  was  Silber  at  love-songs ;  for  his 
voice  had  an  odd  habit  of  contradicting  the  theatrical  expres- 
sion of  rapture  he  endeavored  to  throw  into  his  face.  With 
great  good  humor,  Franz  used  to  play  accompaniments  when- 
ever Silber  would  sing ;  and  it  was  certainly  a  queer  conjunc- 
tion to  hear  the  sensitive,  thrilling,  beautiful  music  of  the 
zither  hovering  around  and  about  poor  Silber's  quavering 
voice.  Silber  had  a  notion  of  learning  to  play  the  zither 
himself ;  but  seemed  not  to  be  quite  sure  whether  it  would 
befit  the  character  he  ordinarily  assumed.  Yet,  with  all  his 
weaknesses  and  affections,  the  lad  had  some  good  points 
about  him,  or  how  could  that  black-eyed  little  actress  have 
smiled  upon  his  uncouthness  ? 


238  KILMENY. 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

NEWS    FROM    ENGLAND. 

WAS  it  love,  or  was  it  the  keen  air  of  the  Tyrol,  that  awoke 
all  those  wild  enthusiasms  which  now,  as  I  look  back,  I  can 
see  clustering  around  our  happy  journey  through  the  mount- 
ain land  ? 

"  Why,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  should  I  return  to  those  old 
dead  times  for  a  story  ?  \Vhy  not  take  our  modern  life,  which 
is  as  full  of  love  and  tragic  misery  as  any  time  before  it,  and 
seized  the  hearts  of  men  with  some  noble  tale  of  suffering 
or  courage  or  heroism  ?  And  what  is  the  message  which  I 
should  take  home  to  my  countrymen  from  this  rarer  atmos- 
phere, in  which  the  finer  aspirations  of  human  nature  flourish 
— what  but  that  love  is  better  than  wealth,  and  that  a  true 
heart  is  of  more  value  than  big  estates  ?  " 

The  message  was  not  nearly  so  startling  as  I  fancied. 
Many  a  man  has  preached  it  without  being  much  attended 
to ;  many  a  man  has  found  out  its  truth  when,  after  spending 
a  lifetime  in  growing  rich,  he  looks  back,  and  sees  in  the  past 
a  young  face  full  of  love  and  the  pain  of  parting,  and  won- 
ders whether  less  money  and  more  of  the  love  that  he  threw 
away  might  not  have  made  his  life  happier. 

"  Why  are  you  always  so  silent  in  the  morning  ? "  asked 
Franz,  as  we  left  Bregenz.  "  You  are  visited  by  grand  flashes 
of  silence,  in  which  you  seem  to  sink  into  your  breeches- 
pockets.  You  are  practically  dead.  You  see  nothing  and 
hear  nothing,  unless  you  are  listening  inside  your  brain  to 
some  music  that  a  girl  sang  to  you  in  England.  Is  that 
true  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  I  can  hear  her  singing  sometimes,"  I  said. 

We  had  turned  our  back  on  the  lake,  that  was  half  hidden 
under  the  thick  white  mist,  and  were  now  skirting  the  base  of 
the  rocky  and  wooded  mountains  that  encircle  the  Tyrol, 
preparatory  to  our  crossing  the  giant  chain  of  the  Arlberg. 
The  busy  Tyrolese  were  already  abroad  in  their  fields  and 
meadows,  where  the  small,  meek,  large-eyed  cattle  browsed. 
As  we  ascended,  the  air  became  rarer,  the  sun  broke  through 
the  mist,  and  lit  up  for  us  the  immense  range  of  the  Appen- 
zeller  Alps,  that  were  here  and  their  dusted  with  snow. 

"  What  is  the  color  of  her  eyes  ?  "  said  Franz,  insidiously. 

"  They  are  like  the  sea,"  I  said — "  of  all  colors,  in  different 
moods.  But  they  are  generally  dark  and  clear  and  calm." 


.\,./r.Y  MOM  A.VG/..-/.\/>.  239 

Fran/  unsuccessfully  endeavored  to  push  his  inquiries 
further. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  she  is  like  altogether,  and  I  will 
•write  a  song  about  her  in  Tyrolese." 

"  A  song  has  been  written  about  her  already." 

"  By  whom  ?  " 

"  Schiller.  She  is  the  beautiful  and  wonderful  maiden  who 
came  down  into  the  valley,  no  one  knew  whence." 

"  You  are,  then,  in  love  with  a  phantom  ? " 

"  Yes,  Franz  ;  I  am  indeed  in  love  with  a  phantom." 

I  could  almost  have  believed  then  that  Hester  Burnham 
had  come  down  the  valley  before  us,  even  as  Schiller's  maiden 
did  ;  for  by  reason  of  constantly  looking  at  things,  and  fancying 
what  she  would  think  of  them,  I  came  to  regard  them  as  hav- 
ing already  acquired  from  her  some  touch  of  fascination. 
Would  it  ever  happen  that  I  should  bring  her  this  very  route  ? 
Should  we  hire  a  carriage  at  Bregenz,  drive  out  from  the  brisk 
little  town,  along  the  level  road  through  Dornbirn,  with  its 
quaint  houses,  and  Hohenembs  with  its  Jewish-featured  peo- 
ple— on  to  Feldkirch  and  the  lovely  valley  of  the  111 — past 
Bludenz,  with  the  mountains  getting  higher,  and  the  valley 
more  rugged — then  down  the  Klosterthal,  to  rest  in  the  even- 
ing in  the  old  inn  at  Dalaas,  with  a  warm  and  well-lit  room, 
and  casements  opening  to  show  us  the  moonlight  shimmering 
along  the  pale  white  glaciers  of  the  mountains  under  which 
the  little  village  lies  ?  Would  it  ever  be  my  great  joy  to  wrap 
up  the  little  figure  cosily  in  her  carriage,  and  see  that  she  was 
snug  and  warm  as  we  drove  through  the  cold  mountain  air  ? 
Should  I  be  able  to  look  in  her  eyes  as  I  drew  the  shawl 
tighter  under  the  small  chin,  to  keep  the  white  little  neck 
comfortable  and  close  and  safe  ?  Fancy  going  through  this 
beautiful  country — away  from  towns  and  strangers,  and  the 
formal  obligations  of  society  ;  her  only  duty  being  to  look  and 
charm  the  very  air  around  her,  mine  but  to  wait  upon  my 
dainty  little  queen,  and  beg  the  mountain-wind  to  be  gentle 
with  her  hair.  Of  these  sweet  dreams  the  deadliest  poison  of 
misery  is  made. 

The  Tyrol  was  for  me  henceforth  and  forever  saturated  with 
memories  and  thoughts  and  suggestions  of  Hester  Burnham. 
The  reader,  who  may  have  gone  through  this  charming  country 
and  enjoyed  its  simple  ways,  its  homely  meals,  its  clear  air, 
and  its  splendid  lines  of  snow-hills,  will  perhaps  scarcely  un- 
derstand how  a  small  lady,  secreted  among  the  leaves  of 
Buckinghamshire,  could  have  changed  the  character  of  a  whole 
country,  and  permeated  its  gigantic  mountains,  its  green  fields, 


240  KILMENY. 

its  gray,  rushing  rivers,  its  very  sunshine,  with  the  subtle  in- 
fluence of  her  presence.  The  sunshine  was  different  there. 
A  month  later,  dwelling  among  the  dull  white  houses  of 
Munich,  I  used  to  wonder  if  there  were  any  sunshine  like  the 
sunshine  of  the  Tyrol,  and  whether  she  and  I  might  ever  see  it 
together. 

As  ill-luck  would  have  it,  there  was  no  sunshine  for  the 
Professor's  party  in  crossing  the  Arlberg.  On  the  contrary, 
we  found  our  way  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain  in  dense 
clouds  of  mist  and  rain,  that  concealed  from  us  the  precipices 
under  our  feet,  and  prevented  our  looking  either  to  the  right 
hand  or  to  the  left.  It  had  been  raining  all  night,  too ;  and 
the  mountain  torrents,  swollen  and  muddy,  dashed  down  the 
channels  they  had  cleared  for  themselves  with  a  noise  that 
was  all  the  more  impressive  that  we  could  only  now  and  again 
catch  glimpses  of  the  masses  of  foaming,  tumbling  gray  water. 
Sometimes  the  mist  became  so  thick  that  we  could  just  see 
the  posts  stuck  along  the  edge  of  the  road,  to  prevent  car- 
riages from  going  over ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was 
a  faint  green  hue  appearing  through  the  vapor,  which  we  took 
to  be  the  wet  side  of  the  hill  glimmering  behind  the  fog. 

There  was  only  one  water-proof  coat  among  us,  and  that 
we  voted  over  to  the  Professor.  So  we  walked  on. 

"  I  take  it,"  observed  the  Professor,  drawing  up  his  spare 
figure,  seemingly  in  defiance  of  the  rain  that  dashed  about 
his  face  and  trickled  down  his  nose — "  I  take  it  all  imagina- 
tive art  has  sprung  from  the  mountain  districts  of  the  world 
— that  the  human  mind  has  been  awakened  to  the  conception 
of  music,  poetry,  and  painting  by  the  solitude  of  mountains. 
Yet  you  will  find  that  the  men  who  have  caught  the  imagina- 
tive width  and  power  of  the  hills  into  their  nature  have  gone 
down  into  the  plains — into  the  towns  and  cities,  perhaps— to 
seek  the  calm  of  artistic  expression.  All  the  great  artists  of 
Italy  have  been  born  beneath  the  spell  of  the  Apennines  ; 
and  then  they  have  gone  into  Florence,  or  Rome,  or  Milan, 
as  the  case  may  be,  and  they  have  put  the  free  inspiration  of 
the  hills  into  their  work — ' 

"  But  Herr  Professor,  Michael  Angelo  was  not  born  among 
the  mountains,  and  he  had  the  most  powerful  imagination  of 
them  all,"  objected  Franz,  who  was  at  this  moment  a  wretched 
spectacle. 

"  Learn,  sir,  said  the  Professor,  "  never  to  destroy  a  theory 
with  a  fact.  Yet,  tell  me,  where  was  Michael  Angelo  born  ? " 

"  At  Arezzo,"  replied  Silber,  like  a  good  boy. 

"  And  Arezzo,"  continued  the  Professor,  "  if  not  among 


.YA'/r.y  I- ROM  ENGLAND.  241 

the  hills,  is  only  a  few  miles  off.  It  is  no  farther  from  the 
uivut  backbone  of  the  Apennines  than  is  Urbino,  on  the 
OI'.KT  side,  where  Raphael  givw  up  under  their  shadow.  Why, 
•ught  to  be  able  to  tdl,  without  knowing  where  he  was 
born,  that  Michael  Angelo  was  no  dweller  in  the  plains. 
Look  at  his  '  Moses  ' — there  is  the  majesty  of  a  great  moun- 
tain in  that  figure — that  is  the  only  thing  by  which  you  can 
characterize  the  force  and  the  grandeur  of  it." 

"  I  know,"  said  Franz,  ruefully,  as  he  shook  his  dripping 
sleeves,  "  that  there  isn't  much  in  a  day  like  this  to  stir  one's 
imagination — unless  it  is  the  prospect  of  a  fire  and  some 
cognac  at  the  end  of  the  journey." 

"It  is  the  wild  contrast  of  atmospheric  conditions,"  con- 
tinued the.  Professor,  "  that  impresses  one  who  is  brought  up 
among  the  hills  with  the  strong  life  and  intensity  of  nature. 
There  is  no  mild  sameness  always  around  him.  There  are 
great  forces  at  work,  a  constant  motion,  and  a  vivid,  startling 
presentation  of  change.  Look  around  you  just  now.  It  is  a 
world  of  eddying  mist  and  fog,  with  pitiless  rain,  and  the 
sound  of  hurrying  waters  sweeping  down  below  us,  unseen. 
But  suppose  a  great  wind  were  to  arise  right  ahead,  and 
come  blowing  along  the  mountain-tops,  and  clear  away  the 
fog  and  the  rain — suppose,  when  we  were  in  dejection  and 
despair,  this  great  wind  were  to  come,  and  all  at  once  we  sav/ 
saw  before  us  the  valley  glittering  with  rain-drops  in  the  sun, 
the  warm,  gleaming  light  all  around  us,  and  the  wonderful, 
intense  blue  overhead,  should  we  not  have  the  power  and  the 
beauty  of  the  sunlight  impressed  upon  as  it  never  was  before  ? 
Then  the  simple  peasant,  reaching  up  his  hands  to  the 
warmth  and  the  sun,  and  thinking  that  heaven  has  suddenly 
come  near,  must  needs  sing  aloud,  as  if  he  were  a  bird,  to 
the  blue  sky  ;  and  the  man  who  has  the  heart  of  a  painter  in 
him  is  amazed  by  the  intensity  of  the  colors  of  the  world 
around  him,  and  'forgets  the  vision  never !  He  will  not  try 
to  reproduce  this  wonder  of  light — he  may  despair  of  his 
colors  ;  but  all  these  intense,  vivid  impressions  of  change 
and  majesty  and  calm  and  beauty  that  he  receives  among  the 
hills  remain  a  power  within  him  ;  and  when,  in  his  studio, 
down  in  some  great  town,  he  tries  to  picture  to  himself  the 
grandeur  of  an  heroic  figure  or  the  purity  and  sweetness  of  a 
woman's  face,  his  memory  of  the  wonders  of  the  mountains 
will  lend  him  his  ideal.  Did  you  ever,  any  of  you,  see  Por- 
clenone's  '  Santa  Giustina,'  which  is  in  the  Belvedere  at 
Vienna?  I  tell  you  that  to  look  once  at  that  woman's  face 
— to  get  a  glimpse  of  its  surpassing  and  gracious  sweetness, 
16 


242  KILMENY. 

its  perfect  serenity  and  repose — it  were  worth  while  to  walk 
from  here  to  the  Kaiserstadt  with  bare  feet !  " 

The  Professor  was  very  gruff  and  silent  for  some  time 
thereafter.  He  had  been  surprised  into  an  enthusiasm,  and 
there  was  nothing  he  more  disliked.  His  singular  bashful- 
ness  invariably  produced  a  strong  reaction ;  and  when  once 
he  had  recovered  possession  of  himself,  I  fancy  he  used  to 
brood  over  what  he  had  been  saying,  and  look  upon  himself 
as  having  played  the  fool.  He  used  to  blush  like  a  girl,  too, 
after  these  outbursts  ;  but  on  this  occasion  he  was  safe  from 
scrutiny  by  reason  of  the  tall  collar  of  the  water-proof  coat. 

"  I  know,'"'  said  Franz,  "  that  all  our  fine  old  melodies  have 
come  to  us  from  the  hills — from  the  Tyrol,  from  the  Thurin- 
ger  Wald,  from  the  Riesengebirge,  and  the  Saxon  High- 
lands." 

"You  ought  to  sing  one  now,  or  we  shall  all  be  getting  down- 
hearted," said  Silber.  "  We  don't  know  how  many  miles  it 
is  yet  to  Landeck,  and  the  rain  will  not  cease  to-day." 

"  But  it  will  cease  to-morrow,  or  some  other  morrow,"  said 
Franz,  gayly.  "  You  ought  to  look  forward  to  the  snug  inn  at 
Landeck — the  warm  stoves,  a  schnitzel,  wine,  a  pipe,  and 
sleep — all  of  which  luxuries  lie  ahead.  I  have  the  picture 
before  me.  A  large  room,  long  tables,  one  of  them  covered 
with  a  white  cloth  ;  a  green  stove,  very  warm,  two  candles, 
some  matches — " 

"  A  zither,"  I  added. 

"  And  a  picture  of  the  patron  saint  of  brewers,  the  king 
Gambrinus — a  jolly  person  in  blue  and  red  robes,  holding  a 
foaming  jug  of  beer  in  his  hand,  and  honored  by  these  highly 
ingenious  lines — 

" '  Gambrinus,  in  Flandern  und  Brabant, 
Em  Konig  uber  Leut'  und  Land, 
Aus  Malz  und  Hopfen  hat  gelehrt 
Zu  brauen  Bier  gar  lobenswerth, 
Drum  ist  er  in  der  Brauer  Orden 
Ihr  oberster  Patron  geworden  ; 
Wo  gibt's  ein  ander  Handwerk  mehr, 
Das  sich  kann  ruhmen  solcher  Ehr  ? '  " 

"  It  is  not  in  the  Tyrol,  Mr.  Franz,"  said  the  Professor, 
"  that  you  should  be  surprised  to  find  a  man  at  once  brewer 
and  king.  Remenber  Andreas  Hofer." 

Which,  of  course,  set  Franz  into  singing  "  Zu  Mantua  in 
Banden,"  with  its  touching  words  and  rather  commonplace 
music. 

At  Landeck  there  was  more  awaiting  us  than  food  and 


warmth,  desirable  and  welcome  as  these  were.  The  Professor 
had  had  another  packet  of  letters  forwarded;  and  among 
them  was  one  for  me.  By  the  handwriting  on  the  envelope, 
1  saw  it  was  from  Bonnie  Lesley. 

"  Will  she  tell  me  anything  about  Hester  Burnham  ?  "  I 
thought.  "  Will  she  at  least  write  the  name,  that  I  may  car- 
ry it  about  with  me  ? " 

The  first  words  in  the  letter  (and  it  was  curious  to  read 
her  successive  statements  without  seeing  her  pretty  looks  of 
wonder  accompanying  them)  were  these — "Hester  was  with 
me  the  whole  day  yesterday  ;  she  is  living  with  some  friends 
at  Netting  Hill.  I  hope  I  am  betraying  no  confidence  in  tell- 
ing you  something  about  her.  I  will  tell  you ;  and  you  shall 
send  me  in  your  next  letter  a  promise  of  secrecy.  Briefly, 
then,  Hester  is  a  little  fool,  and  is  about  to  make  herself 
wretched  for  life.  Of  course,  you  know  why.  Alfred  Burn- 
ham,  I  must  tell  you,  in  the  first  place,  has  come  to  awful 
grief ;  and,  as  far  as  I  can  understand  these  matters,  has 
taken  advantage  of  poor  Hester's  kindliness — weakness,  I 
call  it — and  has  landed  her  ///  extreme  difficulties.  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  she  had  to  sell  Burnham." 

To  sell  Burnham !  Was  it,  then,  reserved  for  this  quiet 
little  girl,  so  prudent  and  considerate  in  all  her  ways,  to  let 
the  old  house  go  away  from  the  family  that  had  owned  it  for 
many  centuries  ?  What  had  she  done  that  the  pain  and  the 
shame  of  this  sacrifice  should  fall  upon  her  ?  It  is  recorded 
in  history  that  one  of  the  Burnhams  was  shorn  of  three  parts 
of  the  then  extensive  family  estates  (the  alternative  being 
that  he  should  lose  his  right  hand)  for  striking  the  Black 
Prince  a  blow  on  the  face.  That  was  the  first  step  to  narrow 
the  means  of  the  Burnhams  ;  and  now  the  last  of  the  family, 
a  girl,  was  to  give  up  the  final  relic  of  their  ancient  power. 

"  Alfred  Burnham,"  continued  the  letter,  "  has  become 
penitent,  and  vows  that  the  only  thing  to  save  him  from  ruin 
is  for  Hester  to  marry  him.  Perhaps  he  speaks  the  truth, 
and  hopes  to  recover  himself  by  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of 
Burnham  ;  but  he  has  persuaded  Hester  that  it  is  his  moral 
reformation  she  is  bound  to  accomplish.  Now  you  know 
what  an  unselfish  little  puss  she  is,  although  you  can't  see 
that  as  we  women  see  it.  She  is  so  far  removed  from  the  ordi- 
nary jealousies  of  the  drawing-room,  for  example,  that  she 
will  insist  on  other  people  singing  her  best  songs ;  and  she 
will  go  about  in  her  mouse-like  way,  making  everybody  dis- 
play their  best  points  while  keeping  herself  in  'the  back- 
ground. Do  you  think  she  could  turn  a  cat  out  of  a  chair 


*44  KILMENY, 

she  wanted  to  sit  in  ?  Well,  you  know,  all  this  is  very  pret- 
ty, and  it  makes  one  fond  of  the  sly  little  woman,  but  there 
is  a  limit  to  it.  And  she  has  taken  it  into  her  small  head 
that  it  is  her  duty  to  reform  her  cousin  by  marrying  him! 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ?  " 

Yes,  I  had  heard  of  it  often.  And  I  had  seen  cases  in 
which  pure  and  good  women  allowed  themselves  to  suffer, 
through  some  such  theory  of  duty  and  self-renunciation,  the 
most  cruel  and  revolting  usage  at  the  hands  of  men  who  only 
grew  the  more  debased  by  being  accustomed  to  presume  on 
their  great  unselfishness. 

"I  acknowledge,"  continued  my  correspondent,  "that 
Hester  has  some  spirit,  and  has  a  quiet,  determined,  manag- 
ing way  with  her  that  many  people  clon't  perceive,  although 
they  obey  it.  But  what  effect  would  that  have  on  a  man  like 
Alfred  Burnham,  who  would,  I  am  sure,  leave  Burnham  and 
its  present  mistress  to  themselves  (that  is,  if  the  former 
should  not  be  sold),  and  be  off  to  enjoy  the  pecuniary  results 
of  the  marriage  in  freedom.  Meanwhile,  poor  Hester  is  in  a 
pitiable  state  of  apprehension  and  indecision.  She  fancies 
she  should  marry  him  ;  and  yet  she  shrinks  from  it.  You 
know,  she  is  not  given  to  much  crying  or  hysterical  nonsense; 
but  yesterday,  when  she  sat  in  this  room,  and  spoke  to  me  in 
her  low,  frank  voice  about  these  things,  I  saw  tears  slowly 
fill  her  eyes  and  stealthily  trickle  down  her  cheek.  I  put  my 
arms  around  her  neck  and  hid  her  face,  and  let  her  cry  to 
her  heart's  content,  and  then  I  gave  her  a  hearty  scolding. 
She  was  very  much  shocked  by  the  way  in  which  I  spoke  of 
her  precious  cousin  ;  but  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that 
it  had  at  least  awoke  her  alarm.  She  went  away  without 
having  said  anything  in  particular.  I  am  to  see  her  in  a  day 
or  two. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  the  complication.  Is  it  likely 
that  Alfred  Burnham  would  be  anxious  to  marry  Hester  at 
once,  if  it  is  true  that  these  monetary  affairs  will  necessitate 
the  sale  of  Burnham  ?  Of  course  the  place  would  fetch  a 
large  sum,  and  there  might  be  a  handsome  balance  left,  worthy 
of  that  gentleman's  consideration ;  but  somehow,  from  what 
Hester  said,  I  have  a  suspicion  that  this  terrible  collapse  on 
the  part  of  Alfred  may  be  only  a  ruse.  In  any  case,  he  holds 
her  securities  for  a  considerable  amount ;  for  she  told  me  of 
the  altercation  she  had  had  with  her  trustees,  lawyers,  and 
what  not,  about  the  matter." 

"  '  Besides,'  said  I  to  Hester,  *  suppose  you  were  capable  of 
reforming  your  cousin,  don't  you  reflect  that,  in  sacrificing 


BO.\\\'/E  LESLEY'S  METAPHOR,  2.15 

yourself  (as  you  assuredly  would),  you  are  also  sacrificing 
some  other  man  whom  you  might  have  made  happy?' 

" '  I  have  never  given'  any  man  the  right  to  think  of  me  in 
that  way,'  she  said,  a  little  proudly. 

" '  My  dear,'  said  I,  with  the  calmness  of  superior  wisdom, 
'that  is  a  right  which  men  assume  without  its  being  given 
them.  Now,  on  your  honor,  is  there  no  man  whom  you  sus- 
pect of  loving  you  ? ' 

"  'The  question  is  too  absurd,'  she  said,  hastily,  and  turned 
away  under  some  pretence,  or  other. 

"  But  for  the  first  time  I  saw  in  her  eyes,  that  are  generally 
so  honest  and  clear  that  they  look  through  you,  a  sort  of 
troubled  concealment.  Can  you  read  me  my  riddle,  Mr.  For- 
eigner, and  tell  me  who  is  going  to  carry  off  the  lady  of  Burn- 
ham  ?  You  see  I  have  not  given  in  yet  to  Hester's  folly,  but 
I  shall  have  a  hard  fight  with  her,  I  am  afraid,  before  I  can 
make  her  change  her  mind." 

There  was  nothing  else  of  any  importance  in  the  letter,  ex' 
cept  that,  curiously  enough,  the  envelope  contained  a  slip  of 
paper  with  a  few  words,  and  a  " glucklicke  ReiseJ"  from  Mr. 
Morcll.  How  came  this  enclosure  there  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

BONNIE  LESLEY'S  METAPHOR. 

THE  long  journey  through  cold  and  rain,  and  the  late  din- 
ner that  followed,  made  our  party  rather  sleepy  that  evening. 
The  Professor  subsided  into  a  soft  slumber,  which  Franz 
would  not  break  by  taking  out  his  zither.  Indeed  the  whole 
of  us  were  in  a  comatose  state,  and  had  just  sufficient  energy 
to  keep  our  cigars  from  going  out,  so  that  I  had  plenty  of  time 
to  think  over  the  contents  of  Bonnie  Lesley's  long  letter. 
The  friendly  confidence  therein  displayed,  and  the  concluding 
hint  it  contained,  were  chiefly,  I  fancy,  the  result  of  an  excur- 
sion which  she  and  I  had  made  to  Richmond,  and  which  put 
our  relations  on  a  much  more  intimate  footing  than  they  had 
ever  hitherto  been.  The  history  of  that  excursion  was  a 
curious  one.  When  I  went  up  to  London  after  recovering 
from  the  accident  down  in  Buckinghamshire,  I  expected  that 
Bonnie  Lesley  would  be  much  embarrassed  when  we  met. 
The  reader  may  remember  the  peculiar  confession  which  the 
beautiful  penitent  made.  For  a  woman  to  tell  you  that  she 


246  KILMENY. 

has  been  trying  to  make  you  fall  in  love  with  her,  in  order  to 
revenge  herself  on  somebody  else,  and  in  order  to  prove  to 
this  third  person  that  she  was  worth  falling  in  love  with,  is 
rather  a  startling  revelation.  Under  ordinary  circumstances, 
you  could  not  help  despising  the  woman  who  could  act  in  this 
fashion,  however  ashamed  of  herself  she  professed  to  be.  At 
least,  you  would  expect  that  this  sense  of  shame  would  hang 
about  her  for  some  little  time,  and  put  some  constraint  on 
her  manner. 

With  Bonnie  Lesley  nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  When 
I  met  her  in  London,  she  comported  herself  as  if  nothing  had 
occurred. 

"  Is  it  true,"  I  asked  myself,  thoroughly  amazed,  "  what 
Heatherleigh  says — that  she  has  no  soul  ?  Is  she  incapable 
of  feeling  shame,  or  any  other  emotion  whatever  ?  " 

I  looked  back  over  our  long  friendship ;  and  she  seemed 
to  have  been  always  the  same.  I  began  to  see,  however,  in 
many  of  her  words  and  actions  which  I  could  remember,  a 
sort  of  self-conscious  effort  to  reach  sensitiveness,  as  if  she 
thought  it  her  duty  to  be  emotionally  struck  by  such  and 
such  a  picture,  or  view,  or  person.  She  wanted  to  be  what 
she  could  not  be.  She  saw  this  emotional  faculty  in  other 
women,  and  strove  to  attain  it  without  success.  Yet  she 
counterfeited  it  sometimes  with  an  earnest  hypocrisy  which 
was  less  of  a  vice  than  a  virtue.  The  only  time  I  ever  saw 
her  genuinely  moved  was  when  she  made  my  sick-room  down 
in  Bucks  her  confessional ;  yet  now,  a  month  or  two  after- 
wards, she  met  me  as  if  she  had  never  been  there. 

I  was  rejoiced  to  find  her  so  little  embarrassed.  It  was 
better  to  sink  that  old  time,  with  its  foolish  notions.  So  I, 
too,  met  Bonnie  Lesley  as  if  nothing  had  occurred,  and  we 
succeeded  so  well  in  dropping  into  the  ordinary  relations  of 
friends  that  she  confided  to  me  a  great  secret,  and  asked  my 
co-operation. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  down 
to  see  Mr.  Lewison's  three  little  nieces — great  friends  of 
mine — who  are  at  school  in  Richmond.  I  often  go  down  to 
see  them ;  and  they  are  good  enough  to  call  me  Auntie  Ca- 
nary, because,  I  suppose,  I  have  yellow  hair.  I  don't  know 
any  other  reason.  Well,  it  is  no  great  fun  for  the  poor  little 
things  to  be  asked. to  a  formal  luncheon  with  the  schoolmis- 
tress and  me ;  and  I  have  determined  this  time  to  go  down 
early,  get  them  a  holiday,  and  take  them  to  dine  at  the  Star 
and  Garter.  Fancy  their  delight.  But  nobody  here  must 
know  anything  about  it,  until  they  find  it  out  afterwards  ;  and 


A0.V.V//-;  LESLEY'S  METAPHOR.  247 

so  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  write  and  make  the  proper  ar- 
rangements for  us  at  the  hotel — do  you  see  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "But  a  far  simpler  way  would  be  to  let 
me  go  with  you." 

"  I  am  going  alone,"  she  said,  doubtfully,  but  with  a  puz- 
zled laugh  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  go  alone,  too ;  and  meet  you  there." 

Even  now  she  looked  surprised  and  pleased,  although  I 
know  she  had  anticipated  the  offer. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  come  up  to  Mr. 
Lewison's,  and  drive  down  with  me  in  the  brougham,"  she 
said  ;  "  but  it  would  add  a  little  mystery  and  romance,  wouldn't 
it,  if  you  did  meet  us  down  there  ? " 

"  Then  that  is  settled,"  said  I.  "  You  go  down  and  get 
your  nieces  out.  I  accidentally  meet  you  at  the  gate  of 
Richmond  Park,  above  the  hotel,  at  one  o'clock.  I  am  de- 
lighted to  see  you — " 

"  Well,  I  hope  so,"  she  said. 

" — And  your  young  charges  also.  I  accompany  you  on 
your  walk,  and  instruct  them  in  the  differences  between  the 
roe,  fallow,  and  red  deer.  Perhaps  we  have  time  to  walk 
down  by  Ham  House  and  the  river.  Then  the  sight  of 
Richmond  Hill  recalls  to  me  that  the  children  must  be  get- 
ting hungry ;  and  I  invite  you  all  to  dine  with  me  at  the 
hotel,  which  we  can  see  in  the  distance." 

"  But,  at  present,  it  looks  as  if  I  were  inviting  you  to  dine 
with  me,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  fun  in  her  eyes. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  that  is  not  proper.  Shall  it  be  one 
o'clock  ? " 

"  Yes,  one,"  she  said. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  summer,  but  a  light  wind,  blowing 
over  the  wooded  country  through  which  the  Thames  slowly 
winds,  cooled  the  sun's  heat,  and  sent  flakes  of  white  cloud 
gently  across  the  intense  blue  overhead.  There  was  a  mid- 
day haze  clinging  about  the  horizon ;  and  even  here,  among 
the  rugged  oaks  and  undulating  slopes  of  Richmond  Park, 
there  was  a  sleepiness  and  silence  that  seemed  to  weigh  on 
the  large,  mild  eyes  of  the  deer.  Warm  and  still,  too,  lay 
the  woods  along  the  river,  showing  every  shade  of  green, 
until  in  the  remote  west  they  turned  into  a  faint  purplish- 
gray.  The  haze  hid  Windsor ;  and  so  the  beautiful  wooded 
valley  seemed  to  lose  itself  in  the  white  of  the  horizon. 

Bonnie  Lesley  was  puntcual.  Shortly  before  one  o'clock 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  figure,  far  down  the  road,  that  act- 
ually shone  in  the  sunlight.  Even  at  that  distance  I  could 


24S  KILMEXY. 

see  that  she  wore  her  favorite  color — a  pale  blue  silk  dress, 
with  a  white  shawl  over  it  so  thin  that  the  blue  shone  through, 
and  a  remarkably  small  and  glossy  white  hat,  with  a  pert  blue 
feather  in  it.  I  supposed  that  she  had,  as  usual,  either  a 
bunch  of  blue  forget-me-nots  or  a  white  rose  in  her  yellow 
hair,  and  that  she  wore  some  strings  of  large  white  beads 
around  her  neck.  She  had  a  white  parasol,  also,  with  a  gleam 
of  blue  around  the  edge. 

There  were  three  children  around  her,  clearly  all  talking  to 
her  at  once,  and  coming  along  in  that  half-skipping,  half- 
jumping  fashion  indicative  of  juvenile  excitement.  I  could 
hear  their  voices  a  long  way  off. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  and  delighted  co  see  her,  of 
course  ;  and  was  formally  introduced  to  her  young  friends. 
Two  of  them  were  fair  and  ordinary-looking  young  misses, 
but  the  third  one  was  a  little  Brownie,  with  large,  mischievous 
brown  eyes,  and  soft  brown  hair.  Anything  to  approach  the 
impudence,  the  cleverness,  and  the  winning,  fascinating  ways 
of  this  little  miss  I  have  never  seen.  Although  the  youngest, 
she  was  the  spokeswoman  for  her  sisters,  and  did  not  a  little 
to  shock  them  by  the  audacity  of  her  fun.  During  the  whole 
day,  it  was  "  Oh,  Ethel !  how  can  you  ?  "  or  "  Oh,  Ethel,  I  do 
wonder  what  has  come  over  you  !  "  Ethel  remarked  that  she 
preferred  the  company  of  gentlemen  to  that  of  ladies ;  so  she 
took  my  arm,  and  we  walked  on  in  advance  of  the  others. 

She  began  to  tell  me  of  her  schoolmates,  and  their  friends, 
and  her  friends.  She  mimicked  this  one's  pompous  manner, 
and  that  one's  gruff  voice,  and  then  gave  an  admirable  imita- 
tion of  her  music-mistress. 

"  She  never  does  rap  our  knuckles,  you  know,  with  a  pencil, 
when  we  make  a  mistake ;  but  she  pretends  to  do  it,  and 
then  laughs — so — and  thinks  it  is  funny.  She  always  sings, 
too,  when  she  counts  ;  and,  oh  dear !  she  can't  sing  a  bit,  and 
it  is  so  dreadful !  She  tries  to  follow  the  music  with  her  '  one, 
two,  three,  four ;  one,  two,  three,  four ; '  and  she  does  it  out  of 
time  and  leads  you  wrong.  Now  how  could  you  help  yourself 
if  you  had  a  music-mistress  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  should  ask  her  not  to  sing." 

Ethel  burst  out  laughing. 

"  That  is  all  you  know  about  school  !  My  stars  !  she  would 
box  your  ears,  and  then  send  you  home.  There's  the  French 
mistress,  too — she's  another  caution — I  beg  your  pardon — • 
I  must  say  *  fright.'  Lottie  White's  brother — oh,  such  a 
wicked  boy  he  is  ! — told  Lottie  to  ask  Madame  if  she  would 
translate  the  name  of  a  play,  *  Love's  Last  Shift,'  into  *  La 


.V/A  LESLEYS  METAPHOR.  24$ 

clernicre  chemise  de  1'amour  ?'  and  Machine's  rage  was  awful. 
She  is  pale  and  dark,  and  has  a  moustache,  and  I  think  she 
says  very  naughty  things  sometimes,  when  she  is  angry, 
under  her  breath.  You  should  hear  her  when  she  comes  into 
the  dass-room  at  eleven.  She  says  to  us  all,  'Good-morning, 
mv  dear  children  '  (she  says  it  in  French,  but  I  sha'n't  let 
you  hear  my  pronunciation)  ;  *  I  hope  you  will  be  good  chil- 
dren to-day,  and  profit  by  your  lessons.'  Lottie  White's 
brother  says  that  is  her  grace  before  meat." 

"  Do  you  like  French,  Ethel  ? " 

"  No ;  I  am  afraid  it  will  broaden  my  nose  if  I  go  on  with 
it.  And  Lottie  White's  brother  says  the  French  are  a.  \veak 
sort  of  people,  for  they  can't  say  no  without  using  two  words." 

•'  Lottie  White's  brother  seems  to  say  a  good  many  things. 
T)o  you  see  him  often  ? " 

"  That  is  a  secret,"  said  Ethel,  with  a  comic  shyness.  "  I 
am  not  going  to  tell  tales  out  of  school." 

"  Will  you  come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  hotel  over  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  with  pleasure  !  "  she  said,  with  a  mock  courtesy. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  persuade  your  sisters  and  your 
aunt  to  come  also  ?  " 

"That  isn't  material,  is  it  ? "  she  said,  looking  up. 

"  But  it  would  be  so  much  better — so  much  jollier  to  have 
them  all  with  us." 

"Then  I  will  ask  them." 

She  stopped  and  turned  to  the  others. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  said,  with  admirable  gravity, 
"  we  invite  you  to  dinner.  You  needn't  change  your  dress  ; 
there  will  be  no  ceremony ;  and  no  papas  and  mammas  to 
interfere  at  dessert." 

"  You  forget  me  Ethel,"  said  Bonnie  Lesley. 

"Oh,  we  can  always  coax  Auntie  Canary  into  good-humor 
by  saying  she  has  pretty  hair." 

"Oh,  Ethel !  "  said  her  elder  sisters,  in  a  breath. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  we  should  proceed  at  once  to  din- 
ner. There  were  but  few  people  in  the  large  dining-room  ;  and 
when  the  three  small  ladies  and  their  aunts  had  left  their 
hats  and  superfluous  articles  of  attire  up-stairs,  we  secured 
a  table  at  the  spacious  bay-window  which  looked  out  upon  the 
garden  and  the  far  sunlit  landscape  beyond. 

"  Oh,  how  very  jolly! "  cried  Ethel,  as  she  plumped  herself' 
down  in  a  big  soft  chair.  "  I  wish  Auntie  Canary  was  our 
mamma,  and  would  take  us  to  live  in  hotels  always.  Woulbn't 
it  be  jolly  to  live  always  in  hotels,  and  have  everything  you 
ask  for,  and  no  schoolmistresses  or  lessons  ?  " 


250  KILMENY. 

"  When  you  arc  grown-up,  Ethel,"  said  Bonrrie  Lesley,  "you 
will  be  able  to  live  always  in  hotels  if  you  please." 

"  But  I  mayn't  like  it  then,"  said  Ethel,  with  precocious 
philosophy. 

The  majority  of  voices  carried  the  day  in  favour  of 
sparkling  Carlo witz ;  Ethel  wisely  observing,  however,  that 
she  would  rather  drink  no  wine  at  dinner,  and  have  a  glass  of 
port  at  dessert. 

"  It  is  the  proper  time  for  wine,  isn't  it,  Auntie  ?  And  you 
know  I  am  very,  very  fond  of  port  wine :  it  is  because  I  was 
christened  in  it,  and  so  I  must  always  like  it." 

I  was  about  to  ask  her  the  meaning  of  this  remark,  which 
I  did  not  understand,  when  a  sharp  rattle  was  heard  on  the 
window,  which  made  the  children  jump.  I  looked  out  and 
saw  on  the  window-sill  a  small  blue  torn-tit,  that  was  bleeding 
at  the  bill  and  lying  quite  motionless.  We  raised  the  window 
and  brought  the  unlucky  little  bird  inside,  but  it  was  just 
dying.  Ethel  took  it  before  its  heart  ceased  to  beat,  and 
while  there  was  yet  a  dumb,  frightened  stare  in  its  small 
bright  eyes ;  and  she  folded  her  hands  around  it  and  kept  in 
close  into  her  bosom,  to  see  if  she  could  revive  it.  I  saw  her 
big  brown  eyes  fill  with  tears  when  it  became  clear  that  the 
bird  was  dead  ;  and  it  was  some  little  time  before  the  natural 
gayety  of  the  children  recovered  from  the  shock. 

"  Birds  don't  go  to  heaven  when  they  die,"  said  Ethel,  con- 
templatively. "  The  best  they  can  expect  is  to  be  stuffed  and 
put  in  a  glass  case." 

"  Don't  you  think,  Ethel,"  I  asked,  "  that  the  torn-tit  saw 
your  aunt  from  the  outside,  and  killed  itself  on  purpose  that 
she  might  wear  it  on  her  hat  ?  " 

"  Its  Auntie  Canary,  not  Auntie  Tom-tit,"  said  Ethel,  rather 
irrelevantly,  but  with  the  effect  of  making  her  sisters  scream 
with  laughter. 

The  young  ones  were  in  no  hurry  with  their  dinner,  and 
they  lingered  quite  as  long  over  dessert.  Ethel  had  now  be- 
come quite  possessed  with  excitement,  and  was  making  small 
speeches,  and  acting  and  mimicking  all  manner  of  people,  to 
the  alarm  of  her  sisters. 

"  Oh,  Ethel,"  they  cried,  "  you  must  be  mad." 

"  So  you  said  when  I  called  Mr.  Templeton  a  parson.  But 
he  is  a  parson,  for  a  clergyman  is  a  parson,  isn't  he,  Mr.  Ives  ? " 

"Yes;  I  think  so." 

"  And  he  comes  into  a  room  like  this — mincing  and  treading 
on  his  toes,  and  he  peers — so — through  his  blue  spectacles, 
and  he  bows — so — over  the  hand  of  the  hand  of  the  ladv  he 


B0<\\\'/f-:  f.  A.S7.  /.  J ' '. >•  .ME  TAPHOR.  251 

goes  up  to;  and  he  always  holds  his  cup  between  his  finger 
and  thumb — so — and  says,  *  I  am  so  pleased  to  see  yah  this 
evening' — just  as  he  drawls  in  the  pulpit'  Ah  Fathah  which 
aht  ir  heaven — '  " 

"  Ethel  ! "  said  Miss  Lesley,  sharply ;  and  Ethel's  sisters 
looked  inexpressibly  shocked. 

For  a  moment  or  two  Ethel's  countenance  fell ;  but  she 
was  presently  in  her  old  mood  again,  and  gayly  narrating  how 
Lottie  White's  brother  had  thrown  some  lucifer-matches  on 
the  stage  when  he  was  admitted,  along  with  the  other  relatives 
of  the  school-girls,  to  see  a  French  comedy  performed  by  the 
young  ladies. 

"But  do  you  know  what  Mrs.  Graham  is  particularly  angry 
about  just  now,  Auntie  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Auntie,  with  wondering  eyes. 

"Well,  you  must  know,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  in  the 
spring  we  had  a  gardener.  He  was  a  very  nice  person,  for 
he  used  last  autumn  to  smuggle  us  all  kinds  of  fruit,  and  we 
paid  him  with  our  pocket-money,  when  we  had  any.  Well, 
Mrs.  Graham  told  him  he  must  leave,  and  gave  him  a  month's 
notice.  So  Mr.  Gardener  dug,  and  dug,  and  dug;  and  made 
squares  and  diamonds  and  lozenges ;  and  filled  them  all  with 
seeds,  and  put  bits  of  stick  in,  with  names  written  on  them. 
Do  you  know  how  much  money  Mrs.  Graham  gave  him  for 
seed  for  the  kitchen  and  the  flower  garden  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Nearly  £5.  Wasn't  it  a  lot  ?  Well,  after  the  gardener 
had  gone,  we  waited  to  see  the  flowers  come  up  in  the  squares 
and  diamonds ;  and  we  knew  what  to  expect  as  the  earliest, 
for  he  had  written  all  the  names  of  the  flowers  on  the  sticks. 
But  first  one  thing  didn't  come  up,  and  then  another  thing 
didn't  come  up,  until  everybody  knows  now  that  he  never 
sowed  seed  at  all.  Wasn't  it  a  capital  joke,  Auntie  ?  " 

"  It  was  no  joke,  Ethel  :  it  was  dishonesty,"  said  Bonnie 
Lesley. 

"  But  it  may  be  a  joke  as  well,  mayn't  it  ? " 

Then,  with  the  air  of  a  young  princess,  she  asked  one  of  the 
waiters  to  tell  her  what  o'clock  it  was. 

"  Five  minutes  to  four,  miss,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  fancy,  fancy  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  gesture  of  delight — 
"fancy,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  our  having  been  three  hours  at 
dinner !  Did  ever  any  one  hear  of  the  like  ?  And  I  have 
had — oh,  how  many  kinds  of  fruit  and  sweets  !  " 

"  A  great  deal  too  many,  Ethel,"  said  the  elder  of  her 
sisters,  severely. 


252  KILMENY. 

"  Then  I  shall  be  ill  to-morrow  morning,  I  suppose.  But 
you  know,  Emmy,  that  that  is  all  nonsense.  We  don't  get  ill 
after  eating  heaps  of  jellies  and  sweets  and  fruit ;  and  it  is 
only  the  old  people  who  say  so  to  frighten  us.  I  suppose 
they  don't  like  them,  and  they  envy  us  our  liking  them." 

"  Ethel !  "  said  Miss  Lesley,  reprovingly,  "you're  becoming 
rude :  don't  you  know  I  am  your  elder?" 

"  Oh,  Auntie  Canary,  you've  hair  like  a  fairy ! "  said  Ethel, 
with  wicked  merriment  in  her  brown  eyes,  and  with  a  burst 
of  laughter  which  was  sufficiently  infectious. 

I  think  they  would  readily  have  stayed  there  all  the  evening; 
and  it  was  with  some  evident  reluctance  that  Ethel  accom- 
panied her  sisters  up-stairs  to  prepare  for  going  back  to  school. 
When  we  arrived  there,  we  found  Mr.  Lewison's  brougham 
already  waiting;  and  Bonnie  Lesley  only  stayed  a  few  min- 
utes to  say  good-bye  to  the  schoolmistress. 

Then  she  came  out.  As  I  handed  her  into  the  carriage,  I 
said — 

"  Won't  you  offer  to  drive  me  up  to  town  ? " 

For  a  second  there  was  a  puzzled  and  surprised  look  in 
her  eyes;  then  I  saw  an  inadvertent  glance  towards  the 
solemn  person,  in  a  green  coat,  brass  buttons,  and  black 
cockade,  who  stood  at  the  door ;  and  then  she  said,  sud- 
denly— 

"  Yes,  with  pleasure.  Do  come.  And  you  will  go  on  and 
see  Mr  Lewison,  won't  you  ? " 

"  That,"  said  I,  when  the  grave  person  had  shut  the  door, 
and  received  his  instructions,  "  is  a  matter  we  can  settle 
afterwards." 

It  was  a  ladies'  brougham.  No  one  had  ever  smoked  in 
it.  On  the  contrary,  the  dark-green  lining  and  cushions 
were  saturated  with  various  scents  ;  and  in  one  of  the  leathern 
pouches  there  was  placed  a  flask  purporting  to  have  come 
from  one  of  the  fifty  Farinas  of  Cologne.  Now  one  of  Bonnie 
Lesley's  weaknesses  was  a  love  of  powerful  perfumes ;  and 
on  this  mild  summer  evening  she  not  only  insisted  on  having 
both  the  windows  up,  but  she  took  down  this  bottle  (how  sin- 
gular it  is  that  all  these  Farinas  write  in  the  same  fashion  !) 
and  splashed  about  the  contents  until  the  atmosphere  was 
suffocating. 

"  Do  you  wish  us,  then,"  I  asked,  "  to  die  of  the  fumes  of 
spirits  of  wine  ?  Charcoal  would  be  preferable." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  wondering  little 
laugh.  "  If  it  were  possible  to  die  of  eau-de-cologne,  I  should 


/;o.\\\7E  LESLEY'S  METAPHOR.  253 

choose  that  death.     You,  being  a  man,  would  of  course  choose 
to  be  drowned  in  a  butt  of  claret." 

This  led  us  on  to  talk  of  a  tragic  circumstance  that  was 
interesting  newspaper-readers  at  the  time.  A  young  man,  of 
good  family,  happened  to  fall  in  love  with  a  governess  who 
lived  in  his  father's  house,  a  pretty  young  girl  who  unfortu- 
nately was  equally  in  love  with  him.  The  young  man  insisted 
on  marrying  this  girl ;  the  father  threatened  him  with  the 
usual  penalties  if  he  did ;  and  the  governess  was  ordered  to 
leave.  On  the  day  before  she  was  to  go  the  father  was  sit- 
ting in  the  drawing-room,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  conserv- 
atory opening  into  the  garden.  His  son  and  the  governess 
came  into  this  conservatory,  and  sat  down  beside  a  small 
table,  on  which  some  wine  and  glasses  had  been  left.  The 
father,  probably  wanting  to  see  how  the  two  lovers  would 
behave,  sat  still  and  looked  through  the  glass  doors.  Stand- 
ing with  his  back  to  him,  the  son  apparently  poured  some- 
thing into  two  glasses,  giving  one  of  them  to  the  girl.  With 
surprise,  he  saw  them  both  stand  up,  clasp  each  other's  hand, 
and  with  the  left  hand  raise  the  glasses  to  their  lips.  "  It  is 
a  lover's  parting,"  he  thought.  The  next  moment  the  girl 
sank  into  the  chair  behind  her,  and  the  young  man  fell  heav- 
ily back  on  the  stone  floor.  The  father  rushed  to  the  con- 
servatory, opened  the  doors,  and  was  immediately  struck  by 
the  powerful  odor  of  almonds  that  was  in  the  air.  Both  of 
the  lovers  were  dead. 

The  circumstance  naturally  produced  a  profound  sensation, 
and  most  people,  while  deprecating  in  a  conventional  fashion 
the  rashness  of  the  suicide,  sympathized  with  the  two  unfort- 
unates, and  were  inclined  to  look  upon  the  deed  as  rather 
heroic. 

"  I  suppose  you,  too,  think  it  was  very  heroic,"  I  said  to 
Bonnie  Lesley,  "  this  devoted  love,  and  constancy,  and  reso- 
lution?" 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  think  it  is  fine  in  these  clays  to  meet 
some  such  story  as  this,  to  show  you  that  love  is  still  possible, 
and  that  it  is  capable  of  triumphing  over  the  worldly  and 
selfish  notions  that  are  common." 

"  Do  you  know,  "  I  said,  "  that  the  story  of  Edward  A — 
and  that  young  girl  produces  quite  the  contrary  impression 
upon  me?  I  look  upon  it  as  the  worst  symptom  I  know  ot 
the  degraded  sentiment  of  the  present  time.  Why  did  he  kill 
himself  and  her?  Not  for  the  sake  of  their  love,  but  on 
account  of  his  father's  threat.  His  real  theory  was,  *  I  love 
this  girl,  and  wish  to  marry  her.  But  if  I  do  I  must  become 


254  KILMENY. 

poor,  and  give  up  society.  So,  rather  than  lose  the  luxuries 
to  which  I  have  been  accustomed,  I  will  kill  myself  and  the 
girl  also.'  Confess,  now,  that  he  was  an  abject  sneak,  instead 
of  a  hero  !  " 

"  Well,  "  she  said,  doubtingly,  with  a  smile,  "  there  is  some- 
thing in  what  you  say.  But  unless  he  had  loved  the  girl  very 
much—" 

"  I  say  he  loved  his  social  position  more.  Look  at  the  cir- 
cumstances. Here  are  two  young  people,  with  average 
health,  who  have  fallen  in  love.  They  have  youth,  hope,  a 
good  circulation,  and  faith  in  each  other.  What  more  would 
they  like  ?  The  world  is  before  them.  People  with  far  less 
stock-in-trade  have  encountered  the  conditions  of  life,  got  to 
understand  them,  and  managed  to  live  very  comfortably. 
Poverty  is  as  yet  an  unknown  experience  for  them  :  they 
have  not  that  excuse  for  going  to  extremes.  But  the  man  is 
so  great  a  coward  that  he  distrusts  his  capacity  to  exist  with- 
out his  father's  help.  He  fears  to  take  the  chance  of  the 
future  which  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men  and  women,  far 
from  heroic,  annually  take  ;  and  so  he  says,  '  Life  without  my 
horses,  cigars,  and  wine  would  be  worse  than  death  ;  and, 
therefore,  Bessy  dear,  we  must  die.'  Such  is  the  product  of 
the  sentiment  of  England  in  the  nineteenth  century ! " 

"  You  have  converted  me,"  she  said.  "  I  think  he  was  a 
contemptible  coward,  and  the  only  pity  is  that  the  girl  was 
killed  as  well." 

"  So,  Mr.  Edward,"  she  contipued  presently,  in  a  lighter 
tone,  "  you  have  suddenly  taken  a  strong  opinion  on  the  point 
that  differences  of  social  station  should  not  interfere  with 
love-marriages.  Does  your  theory  hold  both  ways — for  in- 
stance, when  the  woman  is  rich  or  well-born,  and  the  man  is 
poor?" 

"  No,  it  does  not." 

"  Oh,  you  think  a  woman  who  is  rich  should  not  marry  a 
man  who  is  poor  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  use  of  laying  down  arbitrary  laws,  when  every 
case  is  dissimilar,  when — " 

"Don't  be  angry.  Let  us  take  one  case.  The  lady  is 
well-born,  tender-hearted,  tolerably  rich,  and  has  a  pretty 
considerable  pride  in  her  ancestry.  The  lover  has  no  family- 
tree,  and  little  money ;  but  he  has  all  manner  of  manly  and 
lovable  qualities  that  win  the  lady's  liking  and  admiration. 
Now,  ought  they  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Not  in  England  ;  particularly  if  she  has  a  lot  of  friends 
and  relatives." 


LESLEY'S  MF.TAn/OR.  255 

M  A  decisive  judgment,"  she  said,  smiling;  "still  you  leave 
me  a  loop-hole  of  escape.  They  may  marry  out  of  England. 
Then  you  don't  see  any  real  obstacle  to  their  union,  so  far 
as  they  themselves  are  concerned  ? " 

"  How  can  there  be  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me  for  saying  it,  but  you  stare  at  such  a  notion 
as  if  there  were  something  ghastly  in  it.  Yet  it  is  natural 
that,  wherever  she  goes,  the  girl  will  retain  much  of  the  opin- 
ions she  has  caught  in  our  English  atmosphere,  and  may 
even  at  times  show  the  awkwardness  of  over-striving  to  con- 
vince the  man  that  he  is  her  equal." 

"  Then  they  ought  not  to  marry,  if  such  is  her  character. 
It  depends  wholly  on  that.  If  she  is  honest  and  earnest  in 
loving  the  man,  there  will  be  no  question  of  awkwardness,  no 
embarrassment  between  them  ;  and  so  far  from  striving  to 
make  him  her  equal,  she  will  look  up  to  him  as  her  natural 
superior." 

"  And  do  you  really  think,"  she  asked,  slowly,  "  that  there 
is  one  woman  in  England  capable  of  all  this  ? " 

"  Plenty,"  I  answered. 

"Why,"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  pleased  astonishment. 
"  your  splendid  belief  in  women  is  quite  catching.  Do  you 
know  that,  when  I  hear  you  talk  so,  I  feel  that  I  could  go 
and  be  a  heroine  such  as  you  imagine  ?  I  do,  indeed  ;  but 
then  I  should  probably  feel  myself  badly  qualified  for  the 
part  afterwards,  and  regret  that  I  had  undertaken  it.  Still,  I 
like  to  hear  you  talk  so  ;  for  we  women  cannot  be  so  very  bad 
if  one  or  two  men  think  of  us  like  that.  I  suppose,"  she 
added,  turning  her  eyes  upon  me,  "  that  you  don't  know  of 
any  two  people  who  could  try  such  an  experiment  as  that  we 
described  ? " 

"  I  ?     How  should  I  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Indeed." 

"  Yes ;  and,  strangely  enough,  I  am  the  friend  of  both  of 
them.  Yet  I  dont  think  they  will  ever  marry." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  the  man  is  proud,  and  the 
woman  is  sensitive  and  reserved.  The  one  will  not  speak, 
and  the  other  cannot  make  advances  ;  and  so  they  allow  the 
chance  to  slip  by,  and  other  circumstances  will  arise.  The 
woman  will  be  led  into  marrying  some  one  else  ;  and  the 
man  will  break  his  heart  slowly  in  work  that  has  lost  interest 
for  him." 

"You  don't  give  me  any  suggestion,"  she  said,  rather  pet- 


256  KILMENY. 

ulantly,  after  a  while.  "  What  have  you  to  say  about  these 
two?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  They  are  probably  unfitted  for  each  other, 
or  they  would  have  come  to  an  understanding  long  ago." 

"  Now  that  is  just  the  point  I  meant  to  arrive  at,"  she  said. 
"  What  is  it  that  prevents  their  coming  to  an  understanding  ? 
You've  seen  two  drops  of  water  on  a  table  lie  perfectly  still 
and  quiet,  although  they  are  within  an  eighth  of  an  inch 
of  each  other.  But  if  you  put  the  least  thing  between  them 
— if  you  draw  one  of  them  a  little  way  with  the  point  of  a 
needle,  there  is  a  splendid  rush,  and  you  can't  tell  the  one  from 
the  other.  I  am  the  mutual  friend  of  these  two^  people — " 

"  And  you  would  perform  the  office  of  the  friendly  needle  ?  " 

"  Precisely.  I  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  one,  and  a 
debt  of  contrition  to  the  other ;  what  if  I  paid  both  off  by 
one  grand  stroke  of  mediation  ?  " 

"  Taking  it  for  granted  that  both  of  them  would  thank 
you — that,  in  other  words,  both  of  them  love  each  other. 
It  is  taking  too  much  for  granted,  Miss  Lesley." 

"  But  at  least  there  could  be  no  harm  in  my  attempting  it, 
and  seeing  how  far  it  would  be  acceptable  to  both." 

"  You  mean,"  said  I,  calmly,  "  that  you  intend  to  pave  the 
way  for  a  marriage  between  Miss  Burnham  and  myself." 

She  started  visibly  when  I  thus  dragged  her  from  the  am- 
bush of  metaphor. 

"  You  frighten  me,"  she  said,  "  when  you  speak  in  that 
cold  and  bitter  way,  as  if  you  were  suffering  greatly,  and  still 
laughed  at  your  sufferings.  What  is  it  you  see  between  you 
and  her?" 

Yes,  indeed  :  what  was  it  that  kept  hovering  between  me 
and  Hester  Burnham — blotting  out  the  beautiful  lines  of  her 
features  and  the  lustre  of  her  eyes,  so  that  I  could  see  them 
no  more — what  but  the  face  of  Weavle  and  the  memory  of 

those  early  years  ? 

******* 

The  Professor  awoke  with  a  snore. 

"  I  have  slept,"  he  said. 

"We  have  all  been  asleep,"  said  Franz,  "except  Mr.  Ed- 
ward, who  has  been  sitting  and  dreaming  of  England,  with 
an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  Were  the  dreams  pleasant  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "They  were  about  Richmond,  in  Eng- 
land, and  a  summer-day  I  spent  there." 

"  Ah,  I  dined  there  once,"  said  the  Professor,  "  with  several 
of  your  great  men.  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  they  ate 
much  and  spoke  little.  But  that  was  of  no  consequence  to 


257 

me,  as  I  could  find  nobody  who  could  speak  French  with 
ease,  and  so  I  was  helpless." 

Silber  went  (o  the  window,  and  uttered  a  shout  of  joy. 

"The  rain  is  over;  the  night  is  fine.  Herr  Professor,  we 
shall  have  a  beautiful  day  to-morrow." 

So  we  departed  to  our  several  rooms.  Mine  was  next  to 
that  of  Franz ;  and  I  could  hear  him  singing  of  Schiller's 
wonderful  maiden  who  came  down  into  the  valley  in  the 
spring-time.  How  did  it  fare,  I  thought,  with  that  tender- 
hearted girl  who  was  then  among  the  dark  trees  of  Burnham  ? 
At  least,  the  same  sky  was  over  our  heads,  and,  though  we 
might  never  see  each  other  on  the  voyage,  we  were  still  trav- 
elling towards  the  same  far  bourne. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

INNSBRUCK. 

SILBER  was  right  in  his  conjecture.  Never  was  there  a 
lovelier  morning  than  that  on  which  we  started  from  Lan- 
deck  to  wander  down  the  picturesque  valley  of  the  Inn  to 
Imst.  We  had  gradually  ascended  for  a  day  or  two,  un- 
til even  the  valleys  were  high  above  the  level  of  the  sea ;  and 
the  rarity  of  the  mountain-air  had  its  natural  effect  upon  our 
spirits.  Then  the  beauty  of  the  country — the  swollen,  rush- 
ing gray  waters  of  the  Inn  sweeping  down  the  spacious 
chasm,  the  warm  sunlight  lying  on  the  small  farm-houses, 
the  fronts  of  which  were  covered  with  yellow  maize  hung 
out  to  dry,  the  flocks  of  goats  on  the  hill-sides,  the  great 
masses  of  berberry-bushes  covered  with  scarlet  wax-like  ber- 
ries, and  all  around  the  magnificent  hills,  with  the  splendid 
peaks  of  the  Tschurgant  and  Sonnenspitz  hemming  in  the 
end  of  the  valley. 

Much  wilder  and  more  solitary  was  the  great  valley  which 
we  entered  after  leaving  Imst.  Here  the  mountains  showed 
a  peculiar,  soft,  olive-green  hue  up  to  the  very  snow-line  ; 
and  when  the  sun  fell  on  these  far  masses  of  hills,  the  olive- 
green  became  warm  and  dark,  like  velvet  in  firelight.  Round 
the  base  of  the  mountains  stretched  large  forests,  here  and 
there  broken  by  a  patch  of  gray,  where  a  mountain-torrent 
had  cleared  a  passage  for  itself  down  to  the  Inn,  bringing 
masses  of  debris  with  it.  It  was  Sunday,  too  ;  and  in  some 
small  village,  shining  yellow  with  hung-up  maize,  you  would 
17 


258  KILMENY. 

hear  the  craciv  of  the  rifle  echoing  along  the  hills,  Sunday, 
after  service,  being  the  favorite  time  for  the  Tyroler's  practis- 
ing. Occasionally  we  met  a  sturdy  peasant  marching  along 
with  his  huge  weapon  in  its  cumbrous  water-proof  covering, 
wondering,  probably,  how  many  kreutzer-points  he  was  likely 
to  make.  The  women,  having  come  from  the  small  village 
church,  were  in  their  finest  attire,  and  stared  curiously  at  us 
as  they  returned  Franz's  "  Grass  Gott !"  while  the  young 
lasses,  in  their  braided  bodices,  short  petticoats,  and  peculiar 
hats,  had  a  sly  look  at  Silber,  whose  student-appearance  they 
doubtless  admired  extremely. 

"  Do  you  know  that  chamois  is  to  be  had  here  for  sixpence 
per  pound  ? "  said  Franz,  "  so  we  need  not  scruple  to  ask  for 
it  in  the  inns." 

We  remained  a  few  days  at  Silz,  exploring  the  Oetzthal 
and  filling  our  portfolios  with  sketches  ;  and  we  soon  got  ac- 
customed to  eating  chamois.  Indeed,  chamois-flesh  much 
more  nearly  resembles  in  flavor  roe-deer  venison  than  the 
flesh  of  the  goat — a  dainty  we  occasionally  met  with,  but  failed 
to  appreciate.  From  Silz  we  passed  along  the  splendid 
Oberinnthal,  with  its  masses  of  gray  limestone  mountains, 
flecked  with  snow,  the  needle-peaks  of  the  Selrain  lying  down 
in  the  south.  Towards  sunset  we  drew  near  Innsbruck  ;  and 
I  shall  never  forget  the  strange  appearance  which  presented 
itself  to  us  near  Zirl.  The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  Tschur- 
gant,  far  in  the  west ;  and  all  around  us  the  limestone  mount- 
ains were  darkening  in  their  gray,  the  sky  above  having 
changed  from  red  and  gold  to  a  pale,  chilly  green.  All  at 
once,  as  we  looked  up  and  over  the  dark  mountains  on  our 
left,  we  saw  an  immense  cone  of  fire,  still  and  cold.  The 
wonderful  gleam  of  this  snow-peak,  which,  rising  into  the 
pallid  and  dusky  twilight,  caught  the  last  light  of  the  sun, 
had  an  extraordinary  effect ;  it  seemed  as  if  the  dark  ridge 
of  mountains  in  front  alone  separated  us  from  a  world  on 
fire  on  the  other  side. 

"  Do  not  look  at  that  any  more,"  said  the  Professor,  "  or 
it  will  turn  red,  and  then  gray,  and  then  purple.  Come  away 
now ;  and  as  long  as  you  live  you  will  be  able  to  see  in  your 
mind  that  wonderful  peak  of  yellow  fire  standing  all  by  itself 
in  the  twilight." 

Then  we  passed  underneath  the  Martinswand,  where,  as 
you  may  know,  the  Emperor  Maximilian,  chasing  a  chamois, 
rolled  down  a  precipice,  and  clung  to  a  projecting  rock.  No 
one  could  reach  him  ;  but  the  priest  of  the  neighborhood  got 
up  a  procession,  raised  the  host,  gave  the  Emperor  absolution, 


259 

and  implored  divine  succor;  whereupon  an  angel,  in  the  guise 
of  a  chamois-hunter,  appeared  and  saved  the  Emperor,  to  the 
great  glory  of  the  Church. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Professor,  "  the  story  of  the  Emperor's 
peril  and  deliverance  seems  to  be  well  authenticated ;  and  I 
take  it  fiat  he  was  rescued  by  a  chamois-hunter — probably 
one  of  his  attendants.  I  should  like  to  know  how  they  smug- 
gled this  poor  man  out  of  the  road  in  order  to  persuade  the 
people  that  it  was  an  angel  who  saved  the  Emperor's  life." 

"  Very  likely  they  murdered  him  for  the  good  of  the 
Church,"  remarked  Franz. 

"  It  is  clear,"  said  the  Professor,  "  that  he  could  not  have 
been  ennobled,  or  presented  with  a  piece  of  land  in  his  native 
valley,  for  either  would  have  contradicted  the  story  of  the 
angel.  He  could  not  have  remained  in  the  character  of  an 
angel  at  Maximilian's  court,  or  in  custody  of  a  farm  ;  for  we 
don't  naturalize  angels,  even  in  legends." 

"  They  may  have  given  him  a  post  in  the  army,"  said 
Franz  ;  "  and  very  likely  he  would  live  to  a  good  old  age,  and 
hear  the  story  of  the  miraculous  deliverance  so  often  that  he 
would  come  to  believe  it  himself.  But  there  is  something 
highly  humorous  in  the  notion  of  the  worthy  priest,  while  the 
Emperor  was  hanging  on  to  a  rock,  getting  up  a  religious 
procession  and  going  through  ceremonies  at  the  foot  of  the 
place,  instead  of  sending  people  with  ropes.  I  wonder  if 
Maximilian  swore  at  them  ;  and  whether  he  felt  inclined  to 
hang  the  lot  of  them  after  he  came  down  ?  " 

"  I  admire  your  efforts  at  historical  criticism,"  said  Silber. 
"  You  are  supplementing  one  legend  with  half  a  dozen 
others ;  and  the  result  is  that  you  miss  the  points  of  diverg- 
ence, and  end  in  vapor." 

This,  I  take  leave  to  say,  is  perhaps  the  most  idiotic  re- 
mark ever  made  ;  but  Silber  delivered  it  in  an  impressive 
and  thoughtful  manner,  as  befitted  a  man  who  knew  some- 
thing of  Heidelberg,  metaphysics,  and  beer.  Franz  looked 
at  Silber,  expecting  him  to  laugh ;  but  when  he  saw  that 
Silber  was  in  earnest,  he  took  to  whistling ;  and  so  we  went 
on. 

The  dark  and  narrow  streets  of  the  capital  of  the  Tyrol 
were  glittering  with  gas-lamps  as  we  crossed  the  broad  bridge 
and  entered  the  town.  We  made  our  way  to  our  appointed 
resting-place,  and  for  the  first  time  for  some  weeks  found  our- 
selves surrounded  with  the  luxuries  of  a  hotel.  There  were 
still  a  few  tourists  in  Innsbruck,  chiefly  American ;  but  there 
were  one  or  two  English,  and  it  was  with  a  strange  sensation 


260  KILMENY. 

that  I  heard  my  native  language  spoken  again.  We  dined 
at  the  table-d'hote  that  evening ;  and  I  can  believe  that  the 
English  family  who  sat  opposite  us  looked  with  some  wonder 
and  a  little  contempt  upon  our  travelling-dress.  Indeed, 
with  that  airy  confidence  which  distinguishes  our  countrymen 
abroad,  the  father  and  eldest  son  made  some  observations 
which,  to  put  Franz  in  good-humor,  I  translated  to  him.  He 
laughed  heartily,  and  looked  so  pointedly  at  our  opposite 
neighbors  that  they  spoke  less  loudly  thereafter. 

There  was  no  letter  from  Heatherleigh.  What  had  oc- 
curred to  interfere  with  his  writing  ?  We  had  a  walk,  after 
dinner,  through  the  low  archways  and  along  the  narrow 
thoroughfares  of  the  town,  and  then  we  retired  to  rest,  some- 
what tired  after  our  long  ramble. 

Next  morning  we  went  to  have  a  look  at  the  environs  of 
Innsbruck,  and  made  our  way  up  to  the  hill  on  which  the 
Schloss  Amras  is  built.  From  the  tower  of  this  castle  we 
had  an  excellent  view  of  the  great  and  elevated  plain  through 
which  runs  the  Inn,  cutting  Innsbruck  in  two  on  its  way.  So 
lofty  is  this  plain  that  the  mountains  which  surround  it  have 
their  snow-line  singularly  low ;  so  that  the  visitor,  looking  at 
them  on  a  warm  autumn-day,  is  struck  by  the  notion  that  he 
can  easily  walk  up  the  side  of  one  of  those  huge  masses  of 
limestone  and  find  himself  walking  upon  snow.  The  Mar- 
tinswand  now  seemed  to  block  up  the  entrance  to  the 
Oberinnthal,  through  which  we  had  come  on  the  previous 
afternoon ;  and  lying  on  this  side,  just  looking  down  on  the 
plain,  and  on  the  many  steeples  of  Innsbruck,  were  the  gray 
and  misty  bukls  of  the  Solstein,  Brandjoch,  Seegruben,  Ru- 
mer  Joch,  and  Speech-Kor,  with  here  and  there  a  small 
cluster  of  houses  near  their  base,  whence  rose  a  pale  blue 
smoke  into  the  morning  sunlight. 

"  What,"  said  Franz,  "  if  that  wonderful  fire-peak  we  saw 
last  night  was  the  Solstein  over  there ;  and  what  if  the  moun- 
tain got  its  name  because  it  catches  the  evening  light  like 
that  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  probable,"  said  the  Professor.  "  The 
great  Solstein  lies  just  behind  the  Martinswand." 

"  And  is  9300  feet  high,"  said  Silber,  who  had  been  both- 
ering the  peasantry  all  the  "way  along  with  questions. 

We  went  through  the  quaint  old  castle,  and  Franz  was 
permitted  to  play  an  air  an  the  chamber-organ  that  once  be- 
longed to  Philippine  Welser.  The  instrument  was  in  fair 
tune,  and  the  result  sufficiently  good.  WThat  honest  work- 
men they  must  have  had  in  those  times !  Fancy  how  one  of 


261 

our  gorgeous  piano-fortes — all  carved  wood,  and  satin,  and 
polish — will  sound  four  hundred  year  hence. 

That  evening  we  went  to  the  theatre  ;  the  Professor,  how- 
ever, remained  at  the  hotel ;  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  the 
piece  to  be  played  was  Benedix's  "  Mathilde ;  oder,  ein 
deutsches  Frauenherz,"  the  hero  of  which  is  a  poor  artist. 
We  had  a  box  for  three  florins ;  although  Silber  pointed  out 
that  the  manager,  wishing  to  make  his  theatre  a  means  of 
education,  had  offered  all  students  tickets  at  reduced  rates. 
"  Fur  die  Herren  Studierenden  sind  Parterre-Billets  a  25  Kr. 
beim  Herrn  Universitats-Pedell  Hofer  zu  haben."  Silber 
fancied  he  ought  to  have  the  same  privilege  as  the  university 
students,  and  evidently  thought  he  would  rather  be  in  the  pit 
among  the  soldiers  and  the  scholars  than  in  the  boxes  with 
the  comfortable  and  Philistinic  bourgeoisie. 

It  was  a  hard  ordeal  for  the  piece  that  it  should  have  been 
criticised  by  a  band  of  young  artists,  who,  just  fresh  from  a 
long  journey,  were  practical  in  their  notions  and  courageous 
in  their  hopes.  Franz  was  most  unmercifully  severe  upon 
poor  Berthold  Arnau,  the  artist,  who  is  in  love  with  a  rich 
merchant's  daughter ;  who  has  grand  dreams,  and  is  tortured 
by  distrust  of  his  own  capacity ;  who  makes  love  to  Mathilde 
secretly,  and  then  tamely  submits  to  be  turned  out  of  the 
house,  with  shame  and  contumely,  when  his  love  is  dis- 
covered. 

"What  a  fool  of  an  artist !  "  cried  Franz,  with  infinite  con- 
tempt. "  What  is  the  use  of  his  crying,  « I  feel  it ;  I  feel  the 
power  within  me  ;  and  then  it  dies  away,  and  I  am  in  despair  ! ' 
Instead  of  vaporing  to  a  girl,  why  doesn't  he  sit  down  and 
take  out  his  palette  ?  " 

Further  on,  when  Mathilde  has  left  her  father's  house  and 
married  Berthold,  who  is  now  grown  rich  and  prosperous,  the 
father  offers  to  be  reconciled,  and  the  offer  is  repulsed. 

"  A  fool  again,"  cried  Franz.  "  A  real  artist  would  look 
with  indifference  upon  all  these  things.  He  would  not  remem- 
ber a  by-gone  grudge  against  a  stupid  old  merchant  for  all 
these  years.  He  would  say, '  Here  is  my  hand,  old  gentleman, 
if  it  is  of  any  use  to  you ;  but  go  away  now,  for  I  have  my 
pictures  to  look  after.'  •  He  ought  to  be  above  the  opinions 
or  insults  of  a  Philister — nicht  wahr,  Silber  ?  " 

Silber  started. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  is  a  very  good  piece." 

"  I  have  it,"  said  Franz  in  a  whisper.  "  Don't  you  think 
that  Mathilde  there,  with  her  black  eyes  and  hair,  is  some- 
thing like  Fraulein  Riedel  ?  " 


262  KILMENY. 

There  was  certainly  some  resemblance  between  Fraulein 
Anschutz  (to  whom  I  beg  to  pay  a  passing  compliment),  of 
the  Innsbruck  National  theater,  and  Fraulein  Riedel,  of  the 
Munich  Volkstheater. 

"  Silber  is  trying  hard  to  imagine  himself  in  Munich,  and 
that  the  little  Riedel  is  before  him.  Will  he  cry  presently  ? 
No  ;  he  has  drank  no  beer  this  evening." 

Silber,  however,  applauded  most  boisterously  at  the  end  of 
each  effective  scene  in  which  Mathilde  appeared — so  much  so 
that  Mathilde  inadvertently  glanced  up  at  our  box. 

"  She  thanks  you,  Silber,"  said  Franz ;  "  wouldn't  you 
give  your  ears  now  for  a  bouquet  ?  " 

"  She  acts  remarkably  well,"  said  Silber,  hotly. 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  you  should  bite  my  head  off,"  said 
Franz.  "All  I  know  is  that  her  stage  husband  is  a  prig,  and 
should  have  been  a  lackey  rather  than  an  artist.  Yet  Fels  is 
not  a  bad  actor ;  and  I  have  seen  many  worse  than  Herr  Strohl. 
I  will  drink  their  very  good  health,  and  yours,  Silber,  and 
that  of  a  young  lady  who  rather  resembles  Fraulein  Anschutz, 
when  we  go  out." 

"  Ah,  you  think  she  does  resemble  Fraulein  Riedel  ? "  said 
Silber,  eagerly. 

"  You  do,  at  least ;  for  I  don't  believe  you  know  anything 
of  the  piece.  Now  what  is  the  name  of  Mathilde's  brother  ?  " 

"  Stuff  !  "  said  Silber,  turning  angrily  away. 

When  Mathilde  had  at  length  effected  a  reconciliation  be- 
tween her  husband  and  her  father  by  means  of  her  "  deut- 
sches  Frauenherz,"  we  left  the  theatre,  and  proceeded  on  a 
prowl  through  the  town,  visiting  such  places  of  amusement  as 
were  still  open  for  the  benefit  of  the  soldiers.  Now  we  en- 
tered a  gayly-lit  beer-garden,  again  we  heard  a  little  music, 
and  so  forth,  until  Franz,  who  was  beyond  the  ameliorating 
and  controlling  influences  of  his  zither,  and  who  had  drank  a 
little  more  wine  than  was  necessary,  began  to  wax- warm  about 
political  matters,  and  generally  expressed  his  readiness  to 
fight  any  man  or  woman  born  in  the  whole  of  the  Tyrolese 
capital.  But  the  fit  did  not  last  long ;  for  presently  he  was 
off  into  the  dark  streets  again,  singing  somewhat  loudly  the 
mad  carnival  song — 

"Alle  Vogele  singet  so  hell, 
Bis  am  Samstig  z'  Obed  ; 
Alle  Meideli  hattet  mi  gern, 
O  !  wie  bin  i  ploget. 

Narro ! 


263 

Hidclc,  hadele,  hinterm  Stadtele 
H.it  en  Dcttelmann  Hochzit; 
Es  giget  e  Musle,  's  tanzct  e  Lausle, 
Es  schlagt  en  Igele  Trumme  ; 
Alle  Thicrle  wo  Wadeli  bond,* 
Sollet  zur  Hochzit  kumme ! 

Narro  !  " 

When  \ve  got  home  to  the  hotel  we  found  the  Professor 
and  an  American  gentleman  busily  discussing  the  merits  of 
the  various  Continental  galleries ;  the  American  speaking 
French  fluently,  and  with  very  little  intonation. 

We  did  not  stay  long  in  Innsbruck  ;  there  being  little  (be- 
yond some  picturesque  street-views)  worthy  of  an  artist's  at- 
tention in  the  place.  We  followed  the  course  of  the  Inn  to 
Jenbach ;  and  there  we  turned  sharply  to  the  left,  ascending 
the  main  street  of  the  steep  little  village,  and  following  the 
road  that  leads  up  and  over  the  hills  to  the  Achensee.  What 
a  strangely  solitary  lake  this  is,  lying  high  among  the  mount- 
ains ;  and  how  beautiful  were  its  clear  blue  waters  as  we 
first  caught  a  sight  of  them,  with  the  sunlight  lying  over  the 
wooded  slopes  that  descend  almost  perpendicularly  to  the 
shore,  while  a  slight  wind  was  causing  the  keen  blue  surface 
to  ripple  in  lines  of  light.  Our  road  wound  along  the  right 
bank  of  the  lake,  under  the  craggy  rocks,  with  their  thick 
brushwood  and  ferns  ;  but  we  met  no  carriages  on  this  narrow 
path,  for  a  bridge  had  broken  clown  some  two  days  before  on 
this  side  of  Scholastica.  The  perfect  stillness  of  the  lake 
and  of  the  solitary  mountains  was  quite  unbroken  ;  and  the 
warm  sunlight  seemed  to  have  hushed  the  animal  and  insect 
life  of  the  woods  into  peace.  Near  the  other  side  of  the  lake 
we  could  see  a  woman  pulling  a  small  boat ;  but  no  sound  was 
heard,  as  the  prow  slowly  divided  the  brilliant  plain  of  blue. 

When  we  got  up  to  this  broken  bridge  we  found  a  carriage 
and  a  pair  of  horses  which  had  been  hired  by  a  party  of 
English  ladies  at  Jenbach.  Not  one  of  the  ladies  could  speak 
German  ;  and  they  stood  on  the  road,  having  descended  from 
the  carriage,  blankly  staring  at  the  broken  planks  of  the 
bridge,  and  at  the  two  or  three  swarthy  men  who  were  driving 
in  new  piles.  Their  coachman  was  doing  his  best  (by  much 
shouting)  to  let  them  know  that  there  was  no  help  for  it — 
back  they  must  go  to  Jenbach.  When  I  explained  the  posi- 
tion of  affairs  to  them,  they  poured  torrents  of  sarcasm  and 
abuse  upon  the  stupidity  of  the  peasants  who  had  not  sent 
on  word  of  the  accident  to  that  village. 

*  "  Alle  Thierchen,  die  Schwanze  haben. 
Sollen  zur  Hochzeit  kommen." 


264  KILMENY. 

"The  workmen,"!  told  them,  "say  that  for  three  florins 
they  will  patch  the  bridge  together  and  take  your  carriage 
over." 

After  a  good  deal  of  bargaining,  they  agreed  to  pay  the  three 
florins ;  but  the  head- workman  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  honesty, 
and  admitted  it  would  be  of  no  use,  as  there  was  another  bridge 
broken  just  beyond  Scholastica. 

"  This  is  a  pretty  country,"  said  one  of  the  ladies,  with  a 
sneer. 

"There  seems  to  be  nothing  left  for  you  to  do  but  to 
return,"  I  said ;  "  so  I  shall  wish  you  good-day  and  a  pleasant 
journey." 

"  Oh  no  !  pray  don't  leave  us  without  telling  these  men 
that — that — " 

But  there  was  nothing  to  tell  them.  Abuse  of  the  Tyrol 
and  the  Tyrolese  generally  was  a  communication  which  it  was 
quite  unnecessary  to  make  to  the  poor  bridge-makers,  who 
had  again  betaken  themselves  to  their  labors. 

"  May  I  ask  where  you  were  going  to  ?  " 

"To  Munich,  of  course.  Here  is  our  contract,  written  in 
French,  made  with  that  rascal  in  Jenbach,  who  knew  the 
bridge  was  broken  down." 

The  speaker  was  one  of  those  tall,  solitary-looking  ladies 
who  are  constantly  seen  in  Continental  hotels,  and  who  go 
wandering  about  Europe  with  a  charming  belief  in  the  omni- 
potence of  the  English  tongue,  and  a  fine  contempt  for  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  people  whom  they  deign  to  visit. 

"  Then  you  must  go  back  to  Jenbach,  and  proceed  from 
thence  by  rail  to  Rosenheim  and  Munich ;  or  you  can  wait  at 
Jenbach  untill  the  bridge  is  ready,  probably  by  Monday  next." 

So  saying,  we  went  on  our  way,  and  saw  them  no  more. 
But  I  do  not  envy  the  innkeeper  at  Jenbach  when  they  re- 
turned to  him — that  is,  if  he  could  understand  either  French  or 
English. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

HEATH  ERL  EIGH'S    FEAT. 

ONCE  more  in  the  quiet  and  white  Konigin  Strasse,  fronting 
the  yellowing  trees  of  the  Englischer  Garten.  Munich  looked 
quite  homely  when  we  returned  to  it.  But  I  went  into  its 
formal  and  stately  streets  without  much  hope  of  meeting  there 


///-,/  TlIKRLEIGirS  /•/:,/  /'. 

any  welcome  faces,  such  as  I  used  to  look  for  in  leaving  Lon- 
don to  get  down  into  the  heart  of  Burnham.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  a  sort  of  home  ;  and  we  were  glad  to  see  again  the 
familiar  features  of  the  Odeonplatz  and  the  Maximilian 
Strasse. 

The  good  Professor  returned  with  a  sigh  to  his  labors  and 
his  domestic  routine.  His  homely  wife  kissed  him  dutifully, 
in  a  quiet,  affectionate  way,  and  then  began  to  tell  him,  in  an 
injured  tone,  of  the  interference  of  the  Herren  Polizei  about 
something  or  other.  The  Professor  listened  meekly,  and  then 
suggested  that  we  should  have  a  little  chocolate. 

Lena  was,  for  a  wonder,  gracious,  Franz  having  brought 
her  a  very  pretty  brooch  from  Innsbruck.  Instead  of  being 
impudent  and  coquettish,  she  was  shy  and  demure  ;  and  I 
think  if  Franz  had  taken  advantage  of  her  whim  of  complai- 
sance to  ask  her  for  a  tiny  kiss,  she  would  not  have  minded 
much. 

"  You  have  been  working  hard,  Mr.  Frank  ?  "  she  asked. 

"We  have  all  been  working  hard,  Lena,"  returned  her 
lover. 

"  You  will  let  me  see  your  sketches,  won't  you  ?  " 

Franz  was  overjoyed  to  find  Lena  caring  a  pin-point  about 
anything  he  did  ;  and  he  promised  not  only  to  show  her  his 
sketches,  but  to  finish  up  any  she  liked,  and  present  them  to 
her. 

"  You  have  been  very  wicked  in  your  letters  since  I  went 
away,  Lena,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  then  ?  "  she  asked,  elevating  her  eyebrows  with  a 
pretty  look  of  wonder. 

"  You  know." 

"  I  know  I  wrote  to  you  ;  isn't  that  enough  ?  You  should  be 
glad  to  have  my  letters,  even  if  there  was  nothing  but  non- 
sense in  them." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  " 

This  with  a  pout. 

"  If  I  only  wrote  nonsense,  you  shall  have  no  more  of  it." 

Franz  began  to  look  apprehensive. 

"  Lena !— " 

"Oh,  I  can  only  talk  nonsense.  Very  well.  But  you  like 
my  nonsense,  don't  you,  Herr  Papaken  ?  " 

With  that  she  went  and  hung  around  the  Herr  Papa's  neck, 
and  toyed  with  his  neckerchief. 

"What  is  it,  Lena?" 

"You  will  be  my  sweetheart,  Papaken,  and  you  won't  mind 
my  talking  nonsense,  will  you  ?  Travelling  doesn't  improve 


266  KILMENY. 

one's  temper,  does  it,  Papaken  ?  and  people  think  they  have 
grown  wise  when  they  go  abroad,  and  come  back  savage  and 
intolerable.  But  you  are  always  the  same,  Papaken,  and  I 
don't  want  anybody  but  you." 

Franz  became  angry.     He  did  not  like  being  talked  at. 

"  Herr  Professor,"  said  he,  "  did  you  ever  know  a  cat  that 
stroked  herself  the  wrong  way  in  order  to  have  an  excuse  for 
scratching  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  am  a  cat,"  said  Lena,  with  a  scornful  toss  of  the 
small  and  pretty  head.  "  Mr.  Frank,  you  will  beg  my  pardon 
before  I  see  you  again." 

And  so  she  left  the  room,  leaving  Franz  the  victim  of  a 
deadly  remorse.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a  few  careless  words  ; 
and  yet  the  mischief  they  had  caused  was  sufficiently  porten- 
tous to  a  lover. 

"On  the  very  day  of  our  return,  too !  "  he  said.  "  She  is 
no  better  than  a  tigress  or  a  Red  Indian." 

Heatherleigh's  letter  had  been  sent  to  Munich  instead  of 
Innsbruck.  It  ran  in  this  way  : 

"  Dear  Ted, — Did  you  ever  try  to  break  the  back  of  a  wo- 
man's opinion,  and  find  yourself  thrashing  the  air  ?  I  think 
the  most  vexing  thing  for  a  man  is  to  prove  triumphantly  to 
a  woman  that  she  ought  not  to  believe  so-and-so  and  so-and-so, 
and  find,  after  all,  that  the  impalpable  thing  he  fancied  he  had 
destroyed  is  as  brisk  and  lively  as  ever.  With  a  woman  you 
don't  care  about,  it  doesn't  matter.  You  leave  her  in  her '  in- 
vincible ignorance.'  But  to  find  yourself  baffled  and  tortured 
and  vexed  by  this  invisible,  insignificant  thing  called  an  opin- 
ion, when  the  interests  of  one  you  love  are  concerned,  is  a 
grievous  thing,  not  easily  to  be  borne. 

"At  last  I  met  Polly.  I  knew  I  should,  sooner  or  later; 
for  I  watched  for  her  whenever  I  had  the  time.  It  was  yes- 
terday forenoon,  and  I  was  going  around  by  Gloucester  Gate. 
She  saw  me  at  some  distance  off,  and  tried  to  avoid  me  ;  but 
that  was  of  no  use.  When  I  went  up  and  spoke  to  her,  she 
was  very  much  excited ;  and  her  excitement  took  the  form  of 
a  prodigious  freezing  constraint,  that  made  her  look  like  a 
frightened  wild  bird,  lying  still,  but  watching  how  to  escape 
from  your  hand. 

"  «  Polly,'  said  I,  *  we  didn't  use  to  meet  like  this  ? ' 

"  *  It  is  all  the  greater  pity  we  should  meet  like  this  now/ 
she  said  hurriedly.  '  But  it  can't  be  helped,  Mr.  Heather- 
leigh  ;  and  if  you'll  be  good  enough — * 

"  '  To  go  away  and  leave  you,  Polly  ? '    I  said.     '  No ;  I 


HE  A  THE  RLE  I  Gil 'S  EEA  I '.  267 

don't  mean  to  do  anything  of  the   kind.     And  all  this  can  be 
helped.' 

"  So  I  went  on  to  tell  her  what  nonsense  her  recent  con- 
duct had  been  ,  and  how  foolish  she  was  to  regard  what  my 
father  had  said.  This  was  evidently  a  sore  point  with  the 
poor  girl  ,  for  you  may  recollect  she  was  driven  by  her 
strong  pride  and  indignation  to  take  it  for  granted,  without 
my  mentioning  her  name,  that  it  was  she  I  meant  to  marry. 
No  girl  would  like  to  be  entrapped  into  such  a  confession, 
and  with  her  I  could  see  that  the  reflection  was  excessively 
painful.  But  then  I  urged  upon  her  the  necessity  of  sinking 
all  these  considerations,  every  consideration  except  one — that 
here  were  we  two,  almost  alone  in  London,  and  that  the  best 
thing  we  could  do  was  to  marry,  and  keep  our  own  counsel, 
and  let  our  exceedingly  respected  relatives,  on  both  sides, 
pass  such  comments  as  their  lively  wit  might  suggest. 

"  You  may  fancy  this  a  very  matter-of-fact  way  of  putting  it. 
But  then  I  had  to  treat  the  sensitive  malady  of  poor  Polly  in 
a  somewhat  heroic  fashion,  and  assume  a  mastery  that  I  did 
not  feel.  What  were  my  sensations  ?  Here  was  I — a  man 
drawing  on  towards  middle-life,  looking  upon  myself  as  a  sort 
of  widower,  indeed — with  few  friends,  with  a  liking  for 
domestic  quiet  and  comfort,  and  with  a  disposition  sufficiently 
amiable,  I  hope,  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  an  affectionate 
companion  ;  here  was  she,  alone  in  London,  unfriended,  with 
nobody  to  look  to  for  assistance  in  case  of  need.  Why 
shouldn't  we  two  outcasts  join  our  fortunes,  and  be  stronger 
through  mutual  help?  There  never  was  a  marriage  more 
reasonable  in  point  of  circumstances ;  to  say  nothing  of  the 
affection  that  leads  you  to  think  any  marriage  reasonable. 

"  All  this  and  more  I  represented  to  her ;  and  still  found 
myself  fighting  with  my  invisible  enemy  of  an  opinion,  or 
determination,  or  something  of  the  kind  that  lay  behind  the 
unnatural  hardness  of  her  look  and  coldness  of  her  voice. 
What  was  I  to  do  ?  We  had  got  around  into  the  Park,  by  the 
trees  above  the  canal ;  and  there  was  scarcely  anybody  there 
at  this  hour  of  the  forenoon.  I  preached,  I  prayed,  I  begged, 
all  in  vain.  She  was  as  obdurate  as  marble.  She  admitted 
all  my  arguments ;  and  then  merely  said  that  what  I  asked 
was  impossible,  that  she  and  I  never  could  marry,  that  we 
ought  to  separate  then  and  forever. 

"  I  made  one  more  vexed  endeavor  to  bring  her  to  reason  ; 
and  then,  that  not  succeeding,  I  think  I  was  seized  with  a  sort 
of  madness — a  long  and  happy  future  for  both  of  us  seemed 
to  dance  before  my  eyes — I  caught  her  unawares,  and.  with 


26S  KILMENY. 

a  laugh  that  must  have  sounded  like  the  laugh  of  a  maniac, 
kissed  her.  She  turned  around,  white  and  angry  ;  and  then, 
seeing  that  I  was  laughing  in  desperation,  all  her  resolve 
seemed  gradually  to  break  away,  until  at  last  she  laughed  too, 
in  her  old  frank  way,  and  held  out  both  her  hands. 

"  '  I  cannot  help  myself,  I  suppose,'  she  said. 

"  Was  there  ever  a  courtship  like  that,  Ted,  in  the  open 
air,  in  the  forenoon,  in  Regent's  Park  ?  Now,  when  I  look 
back  upon  it,  I  ask  myself  if  I  was  temporarily  insane : 
whether  or  not,  the  result  remains,  and  we  are  both  happy. 

" '  Now,'  said  I  to  Polly,  '  let  me  show  you  that  you  have 
not  agreed  to  marry  a  boy,  who  will  neither  know  how  to 
work  for  you,  nor  master  you  in  your  sulky  fits,  nor  make  you 
take  good  care  of  your  health.  I  am  about  to  become  rich. 
I  have  a  grand  scheme  to  make  our  fortune,  Polly.' 

"'What  is  it?'  she  asked. 

"  *  A  company  that  shall  produce  something  out  of  nothing, 
and  alter  the  whole  of  our  commercial  relations  with  India 
and  China.  This  company  will  contract  to  buy  up  on  the 
Monday  morning  of  each  week  all  the  sermons  which  have 
been  preached  on  the  preceding  Sunday.  From  all  parts  of 
the  kingdom  the  various  MSS.  must  be  sent  in  and  collected 
in  the  works  of  the  company  at.  Mill  wall.  That  is  the  first 
step.' 

"  *  Yes,'  she  said,  very  much  interested,  apparently. 

"  'These  sermons  are  now  taken  and  put  into  vast  caldrons, 
which  are  in  communication  with  all  the  ordinary  apparatus 
of  a  distillery.  In  fact,  the  sermons  are  to  be  distilled  ;  and 
the  product,  which  is  to  make  our  fortune,  Polly,  is — ' 

"'What?'  she  asked. 

"'Opium.' 

"  She  looked  vexed. 

" '  You  have  just  done  the  most  serious  thing  you  ever  did 
in  your  life,  and  you  fall  to  joking  already.' 

" '  My  dear,'  said  I,  '  I  propose  to  have  our  engagement, 
and  our  married  life  too,  a  prolonged  joke.  People  make 
these  things  serious,  because  they  grow  afraid.  We  shall  not 
grow  afraid,  you  and  I ;  and  we  will  carry  on  the  joke  from 
day  to  day,  until,  when  we  have  grown  old  and  white-haired, 
we  shall  look  back  and  see  that  we  have  spent  life  pleasantly 
and  enjoyed  it  rationally.  They  will  tell  you  it  is  very  wrong 
to  talk  confidently  about  coming  happiness,  and  to  be  so  sure 
that  life  is  going  to  be  pleasant ;  but  isn't  it  better  than  to  be 
continually  foreboding  evil  and  making  yourself  wretched  by 
anticipation  ?  If  the  evil  must  come,  let  it :  we  sha'n't 


//.//:  269 

\vliimpcr  like  children,  Polly.  In  the  mean  time  you  and  I 
will  take  such  enjoyment  and  comfort  as  we  can  get ;  for  we 
shall  never  be  twice  young.' 

"  You,  Ted,  know  what  I  think  about  such  things  ;  but  I 
preached  in  this  fashion  to  give  my  poor,  trembling  Polly  a 
little  courage.  She  looked  happy  and  comfortable  in  a  quiet, 
timorous  way;  and  seemed  to  have  grown  all  at  once  trust- 
ful and  docile  and  affectionate.  Immediately,  too,  she  in- 
stituted a  sort  of  right  of  property  in  me,  and  timidly  begged 
of  me  to  promise  never  to  go  out  any  more  at  night  with  my 
throat  bare — a  thing  she  used  always  to  protest  against. 
Her  remembrance  of  it  just  at  this  moment  made  me  laugh 
heartily,  and  she  looked  a  little  self-conscious  and  shy,  as  if 
I  had  taken  advantage  of  her  confidence.  There  was  some- 
thing so  odd  in  the  notion  that  there  was  now  a  little  woman 
to  see  that  I  must  not  catch  cold  or  otherwise  harm  myself, 
that  I  felt  myself  vastly  exalted  in  my  own  estimation,  and 
ready  to  look  down  with  a  wonderful  compassion  on  you 
poor  fellows  who  are  fighting  the  world  all  by  yourselves. 

"  Do  I  rave  ?  Am  I  sane  ?  I  scarcely  know.  Your 
mother  tries  to  make  the  affair  wear  a  serious  aspect,  and 
fails  wholly.  I  cannot  get  frightened  at  the  notion  of  taking 
a  house.  A  parish-clerk  is  not  an  awful  creature  to  me,  as 
he  ought  to  be.  The  cares  of  furniture  sit  lightly  upon  me  ; 
for  I  know  that  Polly  and  I  won't  break  our  hearts  if  a  sauce- 
pan is  wanting,  or  there  happen  to  be  no  salt-spoons  with  the 
breakfast-service.  I  have  no  heavy  sense  of  responsibility 
whatever  ;  and  I  ask  myself  whether  my  want  of  anxiety  is  a 
proof  that  I  am  not  fitted  to  encounter  the  solemnities  of  a 
married  life.  Gray  hairs  will  come  soon  enough.  Ted  ;  and 
I  don't  look  out  for  them  every  morning  in  the  glass." 

The  rest  of  the  letter  contained  lots  of  gossip  about  our 
old  companions  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fitzroy  Square,  and 
their  doings.  But  through  all  the  letter  there  breathed  the 
same  audacious  trust  and  gladness  that  showed  how  Heather- 
leigh's  life  had  been  stirred  by  these  new  experiences.  Yet 
even  in  his  joy  there  was  the  same  wise  and  kindly  spirit 
that  had  drawn  me  towards  him  in  his  indolent  bachelor  days. 

Two  days  later  came  a  letter  from  Polly  herself.  She  hint- 
ed timidly  that  Mr.  Heatherleigh  had  told  me  what  had  oc- 
curred ;  and  then  began  to  talk  of  other  things  in  a  practical, 
constrained  sort  of  fashion.  But  again  and  again  she  re- 
turned inadvertently  to  Heatherleigh,  and  his  doings  and 
prospects,  and  spoke  of  him  with  a  pride  which  she  did  her 
best  to  conceal.  Polly  used  to  have  a  pretty  correct  notion 


270  KILMENY. 

of  Heatherleigh's  capacity  as  an  artist — indeed,  he  had 
frankly  told  her  the  limits  within  which  he  knew  he  should 
always  work ;  but  now  all  these  things  wrere  changed.  Mr. 
Heartherleigh  wras  to  wake  up  from  his  indolence  and  do 
something  great.  The  public  were  getting  tired  of  the  com- 
monplace work  of  many  of  the  R.  A.'s ;  it  was  necessary 
that  the  august  body  should  get  some  new  blood  into  it.  And 
Polly  enclosed  me  a  cutting  from  a  newspaper,  in  which  a 
picture  of  Heatherleigh's  was  praised  in  unequivocal  terms. 

When  was  I  coming  home  ?  she  asked.  I  was  wanted  to 
make  up  again  the  little  Bohemain  supper-parties  that  were 
so  comfortable  and  jolly  in  the  old  days.  I  translated  these 
words  into  a  wish  on  the  part  of  Polly  that  I  should  see  her 
in  the  full  honour  and  joy  of  her  new  position,  and  that  I 
might  share  some  of  her  superabundant  happiness. 

In  the  mean  time  there  was  little  chance  of  my  congratulat- 
ing in  person  these  two  who  had,  in  spite  of  the  world  and 
the  devil,  achieved  some  measure  of  happiness  amid  the  dis- 
cordant interests  of  life.  I  feared  to  go  to  England.  Should 
I  not  meet  there  with  the  old  hopeless  feeling,  and  know 
that  Hester  Burnham  was  as  far  removed  from  me  as  a  star 
might  be  ?  Here  she  was  nearer  to  me.  In  England  I 
should  find  her  about  to  marry  her  pale-faced  cousin,  with 
the  mean  heart  and  the  cold  eyes  ;  here  I  grew  bold,  and  be- 
lieved such  a  thing  impossible. 

So  I  turned  with  diligent  labor  to  the  picture  of  Wolun- 
dur  and  the  king's  daughter  in  the  lonely  northern  island  ; 
and  as  I  worked  at  it,  on  those  days  which  were  not  de- 
voted to  class-studies,  I  knew  that  she  would  see  it  in  some 
far-off  time.  So  the  months  passed,  and  the  new  year  came 
in,  and  the  spring-time,  and  there  was  a  breath  of  primroses 
and  sweet  violets  in  the  air  that  seemed  to  speak  of  the  green 
hedges  and  the  leafy  woods  of  Burnham. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AT  BURNHAM  GATES. 

MY  private  studio  was  my  bedroom,  and  it  looked  out  upon 
the  Konigin  Strasse  and  the  trees  of  the  "  English  Garden." 
While  the  trees  were  leafless,  and  even  now  when  they 
showed  only  the  young  leaves  of  the  spring,  you  could  look 
over  the  park-like  meadows  that  lie  within  the  garden,  and 


A  1 '  B L'R. \ '11  A . M  (/ 

you  could  see  the  few  people  who  occasionally  strolled  across 
this  open  space  to  the  paths  under  the  chestnuts  and  limes. 
It  was  here,  somehow  or  other,  that  I  felt  convinced  that  I 
should  see  Hester  Burnham.  Many  and  many  a  time  I  have 
looked  out  of  the  small  window,  with  almost  a  definite 
anticipation  of  beholding  the  figure  and  the  dress  I  knew  so 
well  coming  out  from  under  the  trees.  Many  a  time  have  I 
started  to  observe  in  the  distance  some  lady  who  might  be 
she,  and  wait,  with  a  strange,  joyous  wonder,  to  see  whether 
the  figure  would  approach  with  that  dainty  and  queenly  gait 
which  was  peculiar  to  her  of  all  the  women  in  the  world. 
The  successive  disappearance  of  these  possibilites  was 
scarcely  a  disappointment,  and  was  certainly  not  a  misery  ; 
for  I  got  to  connect  the  English  Garden  with  her  so  com- 
pletely that  it  looked  like  a  bit  of  friendly  Buckinghamshire 
that  had  wandered  into  this  foreign  land. 

Spring  came  upon  us  suddenly.  One  morning  I  awoke  to 
find  a  new  freshness  in  the  air — a  mild,  warm  gratefulness 
that  seemed  filled  with  the  perfume  of  opening  buds.  As  it 
happened,  Franz  and  I  were  invited  on  that  day  to  be  intro- 
duced to  Fraulein  Riedel,  that  young  lady  having  graciously 
signified  to  her  lover  that  she  should  like  to  see  the  two 
friends  of  whom  he  frequently  spoke. 

We  were  to  meet  Silber  and  her  in  the  Neue  Anlagen,  just 
under  Haidhausen  ;  and  here  it  was,  among  the  leafy  labyr- 
inths of  the  pleasure-ground,  that  we  encountered  the  happy 
pair.  The  little  actress,  with  the  shining  black  eyes  and 
hair,  received  us  without  any  show  of  embarrassment,  such 
as  sat  upon  the  concerned  and  delighted  and  stupid  face  of 
her  companion.  She  walked  on  with  us,  and  immediately 
began,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  to  ask  whether  it  were  diffi- 
cult to  learn  English  thoroughly,  and  whether  they  paid 
actresses  well  in  England. 

"  But  you  -don't  need  to  learn  English  thoroughly,  Frau- 
lein," I  told  her,  "  to  appear  on  an  English  stage.  We  like 
a  marked  foreign  pronunciation,  becaue  it  harmonizes  with 
the  origin  and  character  of  our  plays.  As  to  salary,  I  don't 
know  much  about  that ;  but  a  great  many  of  our  actresses 
wear  most  expensive  jewels,  on  the  stage  and  off." 

"  Do  you  always  have  your  operettas  translated  into 
English?'' 

"Generally." 

"  What  do  they  pay  the  principal  lady  ? '' 

The  tone  of  this  conversation  did  not  seem  to  piease  poor 
Silber.  He  endeavored  to  divert  her  attention  from  such 


272  KI1.MEXY. 

mercenary  matters ;  but  she  kept  firmly  to  her  point,  and 
showed  herself  a  thorough  little  woman  of  business.  Perhaps 
Silber  was  the  more  annoyed  because  her  talk  evidently  left 
him  outside  of  all  her  plans  of  the  future.  She  seemed  to 
say  there  could  be  no  question  of  marriage  between  a  not 
over-rich  student  and  this  brisk  young  actress,  who  had  an 
eye  to  lucrative  engagements  in  England. 

At  length  we  bade  them  good-bye,  and  received,  on  parting, 
a  kindly  invitation  to  take  tea  with  the  Fraulein  and  her 
mamma  some  day  on  the  following  week.  Franz  and  I  went 
off  towards  Brunnthal,  and  then  crossed  the  Isar  and  went 
up  by  Ludwig's-Walzmuhle.  The  air,  as  I  said,  had  grown 
suddenly  sweet  with  the  promise  of  the  spring;  and  there 
seemed  to  be  a  joyous,  stirring  life  in  the  trees  and  in  the 
warm,  moist  ground.  I  knew  what  Burnham  would  be  like 
then ;  and  I  could  see  the  green  valley  before  my  eyes, 
steeped  in  the  clear  spring  sunshine. 

"  Franz,"  said  I,  "  will  you  start  with  me  at  six  o'clock  for 
England  ?  We  shall  travel  day  and  night ;  then  I  will  show 
you  an  English  valley  in  spring-time,  that  is  finer  than  any- 
thing you  ever  read  of  in  an  Eastern  story;  and  we  shall 
come  straight  back  again,  without  anybody  in  England  know- 
ing anything  about  it." 

"  You  take  my  breath  away — England — six  o'clock  this 
evening — and  the  expense — " 

"  I  invite  you  to  go  as  my  guest.  I  have  become  rich 
to-day.  A  gentleman  in  England  has  heard  of  this  Wolun- 
dur  picture  from  the  Professor,  and  I  had  a  letter  this 
morning  from  him,  offering  a  handsome  sum  for  it.  Shall 
we  go  at  six  o'clock,  and  be  back  in  a  week  ? " 

"  I  have  nothing  ready  for  such  a  journey." 

"  Why,  an  old  traveller  like  you  should  be  able  to  pack  up 
in  ten  minutes  for  a  voyage  to  Lebanon." 

We  walked  back  to  the  town.  I  got  him  to  have  some 
dinner  at  the  "  Four  Seasons,"  and  this  gave  him  courage. 
We  went  over  to  the  Konigin  Strasse,  and  bade  good-bye  to 
the  Professor  and  his  family. 

"  Why  do  you  look  afraid,  Linele  ?  "  said  Franz.  "  It  is 
only  a  bit  of  fun.  We  shall  be  back  in  two  or  three  days." 

"  You  may  be  drowned,"  said  Lena,  with  tender  and 
troubled  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know  why  we  are  going?  "  Listen  !  "  said  Franz, 
and  he  whispered  something  into  Lena's  ear. 

Lena  looked  at  me,  and  smiled  and  nodded. 


.4  1'  HI  7v'.\ 7A-/.J/  (/.-/  7/-..V.  273 

*•  Then  1  will  let  you  go,"  she  said  to  Franz.  "  Lcb' 
wohl !  Don't  be  longer  than  a  week,  Franz.  Ade  !  " 

We  started  at  six.  By  eleven  next  morning  we  were  in 
Cologne.  Thence  a  rapid  journey  brought  us  over  Brussels 
to  Calais;  and  at  length  I  heard  a  fine  round  English  oath, 
that  told  me  I  was  in  my  native  land. 

We  went  to  the  Langham  Hotel  when  we  arrived  in  Lon- 
don, and  there  Franz  speedily  became  familiar  with  all  the 
waiters  who  could  speak  German. 

"  I  have  brought  you  here,"  I  said,  "  that  you  may  study 
American  manners  and  customs,  without  going  to  America. 
Breakfast  and  dine  for  a  day  or  two  in  that  big  room  with  the 
pillars,  and  you  may  save  yourself  the  expense  of  a  trip  to 
New  York." 

"  These  are  not  English,  then — these  pretty  girls,  with  the 
French  fashions,  who  talk  loudly  across  the  table,  and  have 
at  sixteen  the  manner  of  a  woman  of  thirty  ?  " 

You  will  soon  see  the  difference.  Perhaps  you  will  prefer 
the  American  type." 

"  If  they  are  all  as  pretty  as  these  girls  I  -shall  have  no 
choice.  Surely  we  have  made  a  mistake,  and  come  to  Sach- 
sen,  wo  die  schonen  Madchen  wachsen.  But  Leipsic  and 
Dresden  girls  are  fair." 

We  spent  a  day  in  London,  hiring  a  hansom  for  the  entire 
time,  and  driving  about  to  such  places  as  Franz  wished  to 
see.  London,  I  think,  was  as  new  and  delightful  to  me  as 
to  him.  It  was  so  pleasant  an  experience  to  be  able  to  un- 
derstand everything  that  everybody  said,  without  having  to 
listen  particularly ;  and  it  was  pleasant,  also,  to  feel  an  easy 
familiarity  with  the  customs  of  the  place,  even  while  the  very 
streets,  that  were  once  so  well-known,  seemed  to  have 
assumed  an  oddly  unaccustomed  appearance.  Then,  on  the 
following  day,  we  got  on  the  top  of  the  Buckinghamshire 
coach,  and  drove  away  from  the  city  bustle  and  noise. 

I  was  proud  of  my  native  country  when  we  saw  it,  then  in 
all  its  spring  greener}'.  The  young  hawthorn  was  out  in  the 
hedges,  the  chestnut-buds  were  bursting,  the  elms  were 
sprinkled  over  with  leaves  ;  and  the  windy  clouds  that  crossed 
the  blue  spring  sky  gave  to  the  far-off  woods  and  hills  a  con- 
stant motion  of  shadow  and  sunlight  that  created  landscapes 
at  every  step.  We  drove  down  through  the  old-fashioned 
villages — Chalfont,  with  its  stream  crossing  the  main  road ; 
Amersham,  with  its  broad  street  and  twin  rows  of  quaint, 
old.  red-brick  houses ;  Missenden,  with  its  ancient  abbey, 
18 


274  KILMENY. 

and  church  high  up  on  the  hill ;  and  then  we  found  ourselves 
in  the  valley  that  looks  up  to  Burnham. 

I  took  Franz  up  and  over  the  chalk-hills,  and  through  the 
woods  that  were  now  growing  rich  with  flowers.  These  were 
a  wonder  to  him — the  wildernesses  of  wild  hyacinth,  a  lam- 
bent blue ;  the  pale,  blush-tinted  anemone,  the  pink-veined 
wood-sorrel,  the  tiny  moschatel,  the  dark  dog's-mercury,  the 
golden  celandine  ;  and  everywhere  the  perfume  of  the  sweet 
violet,  clustered  among  its  heart-shaped  leaves,  along  the 
rabbit-banks  and  around  the  roots  of  the  trees.  The  con- 
stant animal  life,  also — the  ruddy  squirrel  running  up  the 
straight  stem  of  a  young  beech,  the  disappearance  of  a 
rabbit  into  the  brambles  of  a  chalk-dell,  the  silent  flight  of  a 
hare  across  the  broad  fields  to  some  distant  place  of  safety, 
the  sudden  whirr  of  a  cock-pheasant,  and  the  incessant 
screaming  of  jays  ;  while  all  around  were  the  busy  torn-tits  and 
thrushes  and  blackbirds,  with  a  glimpse  of  a  golden-crested 
wren  hopping  from  bush  to  bush,  or  a  kestrel  hanging  high 
up  in  the  blue,  his  wings  motionless.  Over  all  these,  again, 
the  light  and  motion  of  a  breezy  English  sky,  with  cumulus 
masses  of  white  cloud  that  chased  the  sunlight  over  the 
Burnham  woods,  or  hid  the  distant  horizon  in  dark  lines  of 
an  intense  purple. 

"  That  is  the  house  you  have  told  me  about,"  said  Franz, 
as  we  descended  into  the  valley  again,  and  drew  near  Burn- 
ham.  "  I  recognize  it.  How  fine  it  looks,  with  the  great 
avenue  and  the  trees  ?  You  said  a  young  lady  owned  it — 
who  is  she  ?  " 

I  heard  the  cantering  of  two  horses  on  the  road  behind  me, 
and  turned. 

"Franz  !"  I  cried,  "jump  into  the  wood  here  :  she  must 
not  see  us  !  " 

It  was  too  late.  She  came  along  at  a  good  pace  on  a 
handsome  small  horse,  followed  by  old  Pritchett  on  the  black 
cob  I  had  ridden  many  a  time.  I  pulled  my  slouched  hat 
over  my  face;  with  our  heavy  German  travelling-cloaks  it 
was  not  likely  she  would  suspect  either  of  us  of  being  English. 
As  she  passed,  I  was  aware  that  she  looked  at  us  somewhat 
curiously ;  and  then  she  went  on.  I  could  look  at  her  with 
safety  as  she  rode  up  the  soft,  elastic  turf  of  the  avenue.  I 
saw  her  once  more  ! — with  the  clear,  white  spring  sunlight 
on  her  cheek  and  on  her  brown  hair,  that  the  wind  lifted  and 
flung  about  her  neck  and  shoulders.  I  knew  she  was  there  ; 
and  yet  it  seemed  I  was  scarcely  more  aware  of  her  presence 
than  if  it  had  been  a  dream.  For  I  had  been  accustomed  to 


AT  Bl'KXHA.M  GATl  275 

see  her  in  dreams  \vith  such  a  vividness  that  now,  in  actual 
life,  she  scarcely  seemed  more  real. 

And  was  not  this  a  dream  ?  Our  rapid  flight  from  Ger- 
many had  been  so  sudden  that  now  I  almost  feared  to  turn 
my  eyes,  lest  I  should  awake  and  find  myself  among  the 
white  houses  of  Munich.  Yet  surely  this  was  a  thoroughly 
English  scene  before  ma — the  grand  old  house,  silent  amid 
its  great  trees,  and  the  young  English  girl  riding  up  to  it, 
under  that  windy  English  sky.  You  might  have  fancied  it 
was  in  the  sixteenth  century,  all  this  picture  ;  and  that  pres- 
ently the  gay  young  lover  would  appear,  singing — 

"  Now,  Robin,  lend  to  me  thy  bow, 
Sweet  Robin,  lend  to  me  thy  bow, 
For  I  must  now  a  hunting  with  my  lady  go, 
With  my  sweet  lady  go  ! 

"I  am  right,"  exclaimed  Franz,  suddenly.  "I  have  seen 
her  before  ;  it  is  the  face  hanging  up  in  your  room,  in  the 
Professor's  house." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  wonder  at,  is  there  ?  "  I  asked.  "  I 
have  seen  this  lady  several  times — I  have  spoken  to  her — 

"  And  why  don't  you  now  go  up  to  the  house,  and  renew 
your  acquaintance  with  her  ?  " 

"  Because  we  are  in  England,  Franz." 

So  we  stood  at  the  white  gate  and  looked  up  towards  Burn- 
ham  ;  and  I  could  not  go  away.  When  should  I  ever  see  it 
again,  and  all  the  trees  that  I  knew  ?  As  we  lingered  there, 
some  one  came  riding  down  the  avenue.  It  was  Pritchett. 
I  knew  the  old  man  could  not  possibly  recognize  me,  so  I 
still  remained  there ;  but  when  he  came  down  to  the  gate,  he 
pulled  up  the  cob,  and  said — 

"  Beg  your  pahrdon,  gentlemen,  but  you  be  furreigners, 
bain't  ye  ? " 

"  Yes,"  I  said  "  we  have  just  come  from  Germany." 

"  Ah,  that  wur  what  she  said,"  he  muttered  to  him* 
self.  "  Miss  BurnhaTn's  compliments,  and  if  so  be  as 
you'd  like  to  go  over  the  house  and  look  at  the  pictures,  you 
may." 

"  Will  you  say  to  Miss  Burnham  that  we  are  very  much 
obliged  to  her,  but  that  we  could  not  think  of  intruding  upon 
her,  since  the  family  is  at  home  ?  " 

"  Lor  bless  ye,  the  family  is  only — " 

"  Herself,"  he  was  nearly  saying ;  but  probably  thinking 
that  such  an  admission  would  lessen  the  grandeur  of  Burn- 
ham  in  the  eyes  of  the  foreigners,  he  muttered  something 


276  KILMENY. 

about  our  being  welcome,  if  we  chose  to  visit  the  house,  and 
then  rode  off. 

I  translated  all  this  to  Franz. 

"  Such  complaisance  to  foreigners  is  quite  remarkable,"  he 
said.  "  You  have  no  right,  I  think,  to  speak  of  English  pride, 
stiffness,  title-worship,  and  what  not,  when  a  grand  lady  like 
that  goes  out  of  her  way  to  be  civil  to  two  wandering  German 
students,  whom  she  finds  hanging  about  her  gates." 

"  But  one  swallow  does  not  make  a  summer,  Franz." 

So  we  turned* away. 

"  Where  are  we  going  now  ?  "  said  Franz. 

"  Anywhere  you  like.  If  you  would  rather  stay  a  few  days 
longer  in  England,  and  see  some  of  our  shipping-towns,  I 
will  go  with  you  with  pleasure." 

"  That  means,"  said  Franz,  with  deliberation,  "  that  you 
came  over  all  the  way  from  Munich  to  England  just  to  catch 
one  glimpse  of  that  girl's  face.  Perhaps  you  will  now  deny 
that  you  are  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

"  Deny  it  ?  Oh  no.  That  is  the  very  joke  of  the  position, 
that  I  am  in  love  with  her.  Don't  you  see  what  a  merry 
jest  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  see  that  you  don't  laugh  much  over  it, "  said  Franz, 
bluntly. 

"  Perhaps  not ;  a  few  days  ago,  in  Germany,  I  fancied  that 
I  should  marry  that  lady  some  day.  It  is  a  possibility  that 
has  hung  before  me  for  a  long  time.  Now  I  see  it  is  no  longer 
a  possibility.  I  was  dreaming  in  Germany:  a  breath  of 
our  English  air  has  woke  me  out  of  the  trance." 

"  But  why  ?  but  why  ?  "  said  Franz. 

"  You  are  a  German,  and  you  cannot  understand  it.  One 
of  our  statesmen  has  said  that  there  are  t\vo  nations  in  Eng- 
land— the  rich  and  the  poor  !  she  belongs  to  the  one,  I  to  the 
other;  and  in  England  for  a  lady  of  her  position  to  forget 
herself,  and  what  is  due  to  her  friends —  Bah !  why  speak 
any  more  of  it  ?  " 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Franz,  "  I  don't  think  you  can  ex- 
press yourself  properly  in  German  yet ;  for  I  cannot  make 
any  sense  out  of  what  you  say.  You  seem  to  forget  the 
dignity  of  love  and  of  art.  If  the  girl  is  worth  loving,  she 
will  know  that  any  woman,  if  she  had  twenty  castles,  might 
be  proud  to  marry  a  true  artist.  She  will  think  more  of  him, 
as  he  sits  with  an  old  coat  and  oil-stained  cuffs  before  his 
easel,  than  of  a  young  dandy  smelling  like  a  civet-cat  and  in- 
crusted  with  rings,  who  comes  to  pay  compliments  out  of  an 
empty  brain  to  her.  Suppose  she  had  twenty  dozen  such 


.•//•/?r/v'.V//,-/.J/  UAWS.  277 

s,  she  ought  to  feel  proud  And  honored  by  having  gained 
ihe  love  of  a  man  who  may  make  the  next  centuries  inquire 
curiously  about  her,  and  speak  kindly  of  her  for  his  sake." 

"  German,  all  German,  my  dear  Franz,"  I  said.  "  Trans- 
late that  into  English,  and  it  will  become  mere  bathos." 

"To  the  devil,  then,  with  your  beast  of  a  language  !"  ex- 
claimed Franz.  "  I  should  have  thought,  when  you  bor- 
rowed your  speech  from  all  the  nations  in  Europe,  you  might 
have  got  as  much  as  would  let  you  talk  common-sense.  I 
was  studying  your  language  while  you  were  looking  over  the 
gates  up  to  the  big  house.  I  found  the  melange  almost  intelli- 
gible. There  was  ^foumiturcj  which  was  French ,  there 
was  'mansion,'  from  the  Latin  l mansioj  I  suppose,  there 
was  'park,'  which  is  merely  our  German  *  Park ;'  there  was 
*  timber]  which  is  an  old  Icelandic  and  Danish  and — " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  *  Mansion,'  '  park,'  '  tim- 
ber ' — where  did  you  see  all  this  ?  " 

"  As  I  tell  you  while  you  were  looking  up  at  the  house. 
There  are  two  large  bills  on  the  gates." 

"  On  the  Burnham  gates  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

We  had  not  gone  far  on  our  return  journey  ;  so  we  walked 
back  again  to  see  what  these  bills  were.  As  I  had  suspect- 
ed, they  were  the  ordinary  advertisements  of  a  firm  of  auc- 
tioneers. 

"  Burnham  is  for  sale,"  I  said  to  Franz. 

"  So  the  lady  took  us  for  two  probable  purchasers,"  re- 
marked Franz,  ruefully.  "  That  explains  her  complaisance." 

"  Do  we  look  like  probable  purchasers  of  a  house  like 
that  ?  " 

Yes,  after  all  these  years,  Burnham  and  the  old  family 
were  to  be  separated  ;  and  the  girl  who  was  the  last  of  the 
race  was  to  be  turned  out  into  the  world,  a  wanderer.  Here, 
now,  was  a  splendid  opportunity  for  the  hero  and  lover  to 
step  in,  buy  up  the  place,  and  lay  it  as  a  gift  at  his  mistress's 
feet.  Among  all  the  young  men  of  England,  rich  and  able 
to  do  such  a  thing,  was  there  not  one  who  would  come  for- 
ward in  this  romantic  fashion,  and  show  that  love  was  not 
quite  gone  from  among  us  ? 

I  ought  to  have  been  selfishly  glad  that  this  catastrophe 
had  brought  Hester  Burnham  so  much  the  nearer  to  me. 
But  I  had  been  born  and  bred  under  the  shadow  of  the  an- 
tiquity of  Burnham,  and  it  seemed  to  me  pitiable  that  the 
family  should  lose  its  high  estate  and  be  cast  out  among 
strangers. 


2;8  KILMENY. 

We  stopped  that  night  at  the  Red  Lion  in  Missenden,  and 
we  found  all  the  talk  was  about  the  sale  of  Burnham.  I  suc- 
ceeded in  preserving  my  incognito,  and  listened  to  all  the 
rumors  and  stories  which  were  circulated  without  restraint 
about  the  matter. 

"  I'm  not  for  sayin',"  remarked  one  old  gentleman,  who 
sat  in  a  corner  of  the  parlor,  and  smoked  a  long  clay — "  I'm 
not  for  sayin'  as  anybody's  in  the  wrong." 

"  I  side  with  you,  Muster  Clump,"  remarked  another ; 
"  but  I  thinks  as  it  wur  a  pity  Miss  Hester  should  ha'  been 
sent  to  France.  Folks  don't  stick  to  the  good  English  way 
o'  livin'  when  they  come  back  from  France ;  and  though  I 
wouldn't  say  as  it  was  Miss  Hester's  doin',  I  hold  as  it  wur 
a  pity  she  should  ha'  been  sent  to  France." 

"It  wur  none  o'  her  doin',"  said  a  third,  decisively,  "  I'll 
stake  my  life  on't ;  and  I  don't  see  as  any  mahn  has  the  right 
to  clame  things  on  France  as  he  doesn't  understand." 

"  Ah,  you're  a  wise  mahn,  Muster  Blaydon,"  retorted  the 
other,  with  a  sneer,  "  and  so  you  wur  when  your  good  missus 
axed  ye  about  them  pigs  o'  Mr.  Toomer's." 

Here  there  was  a  subdued  laugh  all  around  ;  and  Mr.  Blay- 
don looked  disposed  to  rise  and  settle  the  question  summarily 
with  his  opponent. 

"  I  bain't  a  dog  chasm'  of  his  own  tail,  leastways,  and  thinkin' 
as  he's  makin'  folks  laugh.  I  hold  by  it  as  it  wur  none  o'  her 
doin' ;  and  them  as  talks  about  France  had  better  show  as 
they've  been  there  by  their  manners." 

"There  be  more  nor  Miss  Hester  in  the  family,"  observed 
the  first  speaker,  sagaciously  nodding  his  head. 

"  Ah,  that  there  be  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Blaydon,  triumphantly. 
"  There  be  more  nor  her,  Muster  Clump ;  and  it  don't  seem 
to  me  likely  as  a  young  lady  like  that  has  been  meddlin'  wi' 
them  lawyers,  and  gettin'  the  place  into  debt.  I  say  wi'  you, 
Muster  Clump,  there's  more  o'  the  name  than  her ;  and  no 
mahn  will  make  me  believe  as  it  is  her  fault.  Talk  o'  France  ! 
Pah !" 

"  I'm  not  goin'  to  reason  wi'  any  mahn  as  runs  his  head 
agin  a  stone  wall,  like  a  mad  bull,"  remarked  the  second 
speaker,  with  slow  virulence  ;  "  but  what  I  say  is  as  other 
folks  in  the  country  'ave  stayed  at  'ome  all  their  lives,  and 
made  theirsels  comfortabler  and  richer  than  they  wur  afore, 
and  as  it  is  a  suspicious  cikmstance — I  say,  a  suspicious  cikm- 
stance — as  them  as  has  gone  to  France  'ave  come  back  and 
fpund  they  wur  obliged  to  sell  out.  I  don't  reason  wi'  no 


////•;  DROPPED 

malm  ;  hut  I  see  tilings  as  lies  afore  my  nose,  and  I'm  no 
blinder  than  my  neighbors.'1 

"  And  who  is  to  have  the  old  place,  gentlemen  ?  "  said  the 
landlord. 

"  Most  like  a  linen-draper  fro'  Lunnon,"  remarked  Mr. 
Clump,  contemptuously,  "  as  '11  paint  the  'ouse  spick-and- 
span  new,  and  put  up  boards  agin'  trespassers — as  '11  go  out 
shootin',  and  hit  the  dogs  instead  o'  the  birds,  and  pay 
nothin'  to  the  'unt — " 

"  And  kill  the  foxes,"  said  one.  • 

"And  contract  wi'  all  the  Lunnon  tradesmen  for  what  he 
wants,  to  save  twopence  off  the  pound  o'  tea." 

"  Yes,  Muster  Blaydon,"  said  Mr.  Clump,  "  there's  a 
goodish  many  o'  the  gentry  as  doan't  know  their  dooty — 
leastways  they  doan't  do  it — to  the  place  where  they  wur 
born  and  bred.  They  mun  send  to  Lunnon  for  heverythink 
— even  if  they  want  peppermints  for  church  o'  Sundays — 
howiver  fur  away  they  be ;  and  all  to  be  in  the  fashion,  and 
forgettin'  as  the  people  around  them  'ave  rents  to  pay,  and 
don't  grumble  when  their  corn's  trodden  down  by  the  'unt. 
I  will  say  this,  as  Miss  Hester  wur  good  in  that  way  to  the 
folks  in  this  here  place;  and  it's  my  belief  as  there'll  be  a 
difference  when  the  new  howner  comes  in." 

This,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  the  general  impression  ;  and 
there  was  scarcely  one  of  them  there  who  had  not  some 
kindly  act  to  speak  of  on  the  part  of  Hester  Burnham. 

As  I  looked  along  the  valley  the  next  morning,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  Burnham  was  about  to  undergo  a  great  transform- 
ation, and  be  henceforth  strange  and  unfamiliar. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   DROPPED   GLOVE. 

Ox  the  following  afternoon  Franz  and  I  were  seated  at 
one  of  the  bow-windows  of  the  Langham  smoking-room, 
looking  at  the  people  who  were  driving  down  Portland  Place 
towards  Regent  Street,  in  every  description  of  carriage. 
Now  it  was  a  Cabinet  Minister,  looking  austerely  uncon- 
scious of  the  notice  he  was  attracting ;  now  it  was  a  young 
and  pretty  prima  donna,  gayly  chatting  to  her  husband,  and 
confounding  the  current  rumors  about  her  eonjugal  unhappi- 
ness;  now  it  was  a  well-known  peeress,  who  had  just  been 


2So  KILMENY. 

attending  a  meeting  of  some  charitable  society ;  and  again 
it  was  some  poor  young  girl  who  had  at  first  figured  in  a 
casino,  and  then  been  petted  and  photographed  and  made 
much  of,  until  she  had  come  out  as  a  fine  lady,  and  was  now 
coating  the  primal  simplicity  of  her  face  with  violet-powder, 
and  wearing  hired  jewels,  and  looking  hard  and  worn  and 
sad  under  her  new-found  wealth  and  fame. 

"Ah,  look!"  exclaimed  Franz,  suddenly,  "who  is  that 
lady  with  the  yellow  hair  ?  " 

I  caught  sight  of  a  mail  phaeton  just  turning  the  corner. 
The  driver,  I  saw  at  a  glance,  was  Mr.  Morell ;  and  the  lady 
on  his  left,  whose  yellow  hair  had  attracted  Franz's  atten- 
tion, was  no  other  than  Bonnie  Lesley. 

"That  is  a  lady  I  have  often  spoken  to  you  about,"  I  said. 
"They  didn't  look  in  here,  did  they  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  saw,"  said  Franz. 

We  went  to  the  theatre  that  evening.  When  we  returned 
there  was  a  message  awaiting  us  to  say  that  two  gentlemen 
had  called,  and  would  call  some  time  later. 

Towards  twelve  we  were  again  in  the  smoking-room,  when 
Mr.  Morell,  in  full  evening-dress,  and  Heatherleigh,  in  his 
ordinary  rough-and-ready  costume,  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  said  Morell,  "  if  you  didn't  see  us,  we  saw  you. 
And  now  you  must  explain — " 

"  We  did  see  you,"  I  said,  "  and  you  have  more  to  explain 
than  we  have." 

"  Don't  you  know,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  with  some  surprise. 

"What?" 

"  You  did  not  get  a  letter  from  Miss  Lesley,  within  the 
past  two  or  three  days  ?  " 

"  Not  very  likely,  since  we  left  Munich  nearly  a  week  ago. 
Let  me  introduce  my  friend,  and  will  you  be  good  enough  to 
talk  French  ? " 

"  If  I  can,"  said  Morell. 

When  the  introduction  had  taken  place,  Heatherleigh 
explained  (allowing  Morell  to  assume  a  bashfulness  which  he 
possessed  not)  that  Bonnie  Lesley  had  written  to  tell  me  of 
her  approaching  marriage. 

"  And  this  is  the  happy  man,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on 
Morell's  shoulder.  "  And  he  has  shown  his  gratitude  and 
good  spirits  by  writing  the  wickedest  reviews  he  could  think 
of  for  several  weeks  past.  When  he  is  in  a  good-humor,  he 
revels  in  butchery.  The  other  night  I  went  up  to  his  cham- 
bers, and  found  that  he  had  just  reviewed  several  books 
which  were  lying  on  the  table.  So  soon  as  he  saw  me  he 


THE  DROrrED  GLOl'E.  rSi 

rang  for  his  servant  to  remove  the  carcasses,  and  went  into 
his  bedroom  to  wash  his  hands." 

"You  might  take  a  lesson  from  me,  Heatherleigh,"  he  re- 
torted, "  and  keep  your  sarcasm  for  people  whom  you  don't 
know." 

"  I  wish  you  all  manner  of  joy,"  I  said,  "  and  I  must  write 
to  Miss  Lesley  to  explain  why  I  did  not  answer  her  letter  di- 
rectly." 

"  Then  you  don't  know  anything  it  contained  ? "  Morell 
said.  "  You  don't  know  that  Burnham  was  to  be  sold  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  knew  that.     I  have  seen  the  announcement. 

"  Perhaps  you  know  the  latest  news  about  it  ?  " 

"  No." 

"There  seems  a  chance  of  the  sale  being  indefinitely 
postponed.  Only,  the  house  must  be  let ;  and  I  suppose 
Miss  Burnham  will  live  abroad.''* 

"Abroad?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  am  sorry  Miss  Lesley  is  not  a  blood-re- 
lation of  that  young  lady,  or  I  might  have  the  right  to  ad- 
minister to  Mr.  Alfred  Burnham  a  kicking  which  he  much 
needs.  Ah,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it,  do  you  ? 
Mon  brave  garcon,  get  me  something  to  drink,  and,  in  the 
words  of  the  drama,  I  will  tell  you  all." 

It  was  a  very  pretty  story  he  told  me — one  with  which  it  is 
unnecessary  to  soil  these  pages.  The  results  of  it  have  al- 
ready been  indicated. 

"  I  will  confess,"  said  Heatherleigh,  "  that  I  did  the  old 
Colonel  an  injustice.  I  thought  his  appearance  of  simplicity, 
and  his  austere  and  proper  conduct,  were  only  a  bit  of  the 
play,  in  which  he  was  acting  in  concert  with  his  son.  But  it 
seems  clear  that  the  Colonel  has  come  worse  off  than  any- 
body." 

"No,  my  dear  boy,"  replied  Morell,  quietly,  "the  Colonel 
did  not  come  worst  off ;  for  he  had  nothing  to  lose.  I  tried 
him,  before  his  son  did." 

"  You  are  modest,"  said  Heatherleigh. 

"  No  I  am  repentant.  Those  days  are  over.  I  borrow  no 
more.  I  am  about  to  become  an  exemplary  husband  and 
citizen  ;  give  up  all  my  clubs  except  one ;  smoke  cigars  at 
thirty  shillings ;  nurse  the  baby ;  and  pay  water-rates. 
Nevertheless,  I  will  ask  you  for  a  good  cigar,  my  dear  Ives  ; 
for  the  days  of  renunciation  are  not  yet  come." 

"And  where  is  Alfred  Burnham  ?"  I  asked. 

"That,"  remarked,  Morell  "  is  a  solemn  question." 

••  And  the  answer  is  worth  money,"  added  Heatherleigh. 


2S2  .  KILMEXY. 

"If  the  demand  for  the  gentleman  were  at  all  indicative  of 
his  value,  one  might  say  that  Alfred  Burnham  was  somebody 
worth  knowing.  But  you  have  not  told  us  yet  what  brought 
you  over  here,  just  now  ?  " 

"  You  must  ask  my  friend." 

"  I  think,"  said  Franz,  speaking  in  very  Teutonic  French, 
"  that  we  came  from  Munich  to  England  to  look  over  a  white 
gate  at  a  house,  and  then  go  back  again." 

"Was  the  house  called  Burnham  House,  Monsieur  Vogl  ?" 
asked  Heatherleigh. 

"  I  believe  it  was,  sir." 

"  Then  I  knew  of  one  man  who  might  have  done  such  a 
thing  ;  but  I  did  not  fancy  that  Europe  held  two/'' 

"  Be  satisfied  with  the  discovery,"  I  said,  "  and  let  us  talk 
of  something  else.  I  suppose  my  mother  is  well ;  and  her 
young  companion,  is  she  also  well  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Heatherleigh,  hastily,  "  they  are  both  well,  as 
you  know.  But  what  do  you  intend  doing  ?  What  do  you 
mean  by  living  at  a  hotel  when  you  might  be  at  home  ?  " 

"  Because  we  did  not  wish  it  to  be  known  that  we  were  in 
England.  We  only  came  over  for  a  day  o'r  two,  that  my 
friend  might  have  a  look  at  our  English  wild-flowers  in  the 
spring  sunshine  ;  and  we  intended  running  back  immediately. 
But  now  I  suppose  we  may  as  well  see  everybody  properly, 
and  in  as  little  time  as  possible,  and  then  go  back." 

This,  in  effect,  was  what  was  forced  upon  us  by  our  being 
discovered.  We  still  remained  at  the  Langham  for  conven- 
ience sake  ,  but  we  spent  most  of  our  time  in  hurriedly  visit- 
ing people  between  the  hours  of  Franz's  sightseeing.  Polly 
was  overjoyed  to  show  herself  off  as  an  expectant  bride  :  and 
yet  you  could  not  help  being  charmed  by  the  odd  mixture  of 
humor  and  frank  jollity  which  accompanied  her  evident  self- 
satisfaction.  My  mother,  too,  seemed  to  look  upon  the 
match  as  greatly  the  result  of  her  care  in  educating  Polly ; 
and  took  every  pains  to  show  off  the  accomplishments  which 
Polly  modestly  tried  to  conceal. 

Bonnie  Lesley  I  saw  twice.  On  our  first  meeting,  she  be- 
gan the  history  of  her  engagement  with  Mr.  Morell  in  a  de- 
precatory sort  of  way,  as  if  she  felt  it  necessary  to  excuse 
herself  to  me.  I  fancied  I  detected  a  touch  of  chagrin  in 
her  tone  when  she  saw  that  I  scarcely  understood  this  effort 
on  her  part,  and  was  certainly  in  no  great  anxiety  to  remove 
scruples  which  I  could  not  comprehend.  This  odd  feeling 
soon  wore  off,  as  she  grew  confidential  in  the  old  fashion  ; 
and  at  last  she  got  to  state  the  relations  on  which  she  stood 


/•///•;  nKOrrr.n  c/.or/-:. 

with  her  intended  husband  with  a  candor  which  would  have 
surprised  any  one  who  did  not  know  her  as  well  as  I  did. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Heatherleigh  was  right,"  she  said,  carelessly 
and  with  much  apparent  self-satisfaction  ,  "  I  am  not  capable 
of  a  grand  passion — I  wish  I  was ,  but  you  can't  make  your- 
self do  these  things;  and  it  is  perhaps  as  well,  for  it  might 
make  one  very  unhappy.  I  like  Mr.  Morell  very  well.  He 
is  good-tempered  and  clever  ;  he  admires  me,  I  know,  and 
thinks  I  will  preside  properly  at  his  dinner  table  ;  and  that 
I  know  I  shall  do.  We  get  on  remarkably  well  together, 
and  I  think  we  shall  be  very  happy." 

"  I  certainly  hope  so." 

"  You  may  say  there  is  nofmuch  romance  in  all  that.  But 
I  scarcely  see  anybody  who  is  romantic  around  me  ;  and  I 
think  we  shall  be  very  much  like  other  people.  It  is  not  a 
mercenary  marriage,  either  ;  for  he  makes  only  a  moderate 
income,  and  what  I  have  is  no  great  inducement  to  a  man 
moving  in  such  circles  as  he  knows.  He  has  expectations, 
certainly ;  and  I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  meet  our  friends 
on  equal  terms,  and  not  have  to  be  stingy." 

Bonnie  Lesley  had  grown  much  more  matter-of-fact  in  tone 
since  I  had  first  known  her,  and  there  was  less  of  pretty  won- 
der in  her  eyes. 

She  added,  after  a  pause — 

"  You  see,  it  is  not  what  you  would  call  a  love-match,  nor 
is  it  a  marriage  made  up  for  money.  It  is  simply  two  people 
who  think  they  can  get  on  comfortably  in  each  other's  society 
who  like  each  other,  and  hope  to  continue  to  like  each  other. 
Upon  my  word,  I  think  most  people  marry  like  that.  These 
wonderful  love-affairs  only  happen  between  boys  and  girls, 
and  they  never  come  to  anything ;  for  the  boy  can't  marry 
just  then,  and  the  girl  ages  more  rapidly  than  he,  and  finds 
she  can't  wait  for  him,  and  marries  somebody  else." 

"  And  he  has  a  broken  heart  for  a  few  weeks,  and  then 
turns  to  his  business  or  profession,  and  gets  older  and  wiser, 
and  marries  a  woman  much  better  suited  to  him  in  every  way, 
and  leads  an  ordinarily  happy  life.  Didn't  you  try  to  give 
me  the  first  part  of  that  experience  ?  " 

"  Now  that  is  unkind,"  she  said,  "  after  I  told  you  I  was 
so  sorry,  and  you  agreed  to  forget  it." 

"I  revived  it  only  to  tell  you  how  near  you  were  succeed- 
ing." 

"  Was  I,  indeed  ? "  she  said,  with  a  pleased  surprise. 
'•  Were  you  very  near  falling  wildly  in  love  with  me  ?  " 


284  KILMENY. 

"Very  near,  I  think — until,  one  day,  while  I  was>  sitting 
beside  you,  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  face  that  I  knew,  in  an 
instant,  I  had  loved  all  along,  without  scarcely  knowing  it." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  "and  your  manner 
was  changed  to  me  ever  after  that  day." 

Presently  she  added  in  another  tone — 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Heatherleigh  will  rather  laugh  at  our  mar- 
riage, and  say  it  is  an  ordinary  social  bargain,  or  something 
like  that." 

"  I  don't  think  he  will  do  anything  of  the  kind.  Won't 
you  tell  me  now  why  you  constantly  fancy  he  is  saying  ill- 
natured  things  of  you,  and  putting  the  worst  possible  con- 
struction on  everything  you  do  ?  " 

But  she  would  not  tell,  nor  would  Heatherleigh  ever  breathe 
a  word  upon  the  subject ;  and  it  was  only  by  haphazard, 
some  eighteen  months  thereafter,  that  I  was  enabled  to  un- 
ravel the  mystery.  A  little  fit  of  very  uncalled-for  jealousy  on 
the  part  of  Polly  was  the  means  of  letting  me  into  the  secret. 
From  the  moment  that  Polly  saw  herself  the  future  wife  of 
the  man  whom  above  all  others  she  most  admired  and  wor- 
shipped, I  fancy  she  was  rather  given  to  grudging  him  his 
acquaintance  with  fine  folks,  and,  above  all,  with  fine  young 
ladies.  The  weakness  was  a  natural  one,  but  Polly  knew  it 
was  a  weakness,  and  labored  to  get  rid  of  it ;  nevertheless 
she  occasionally  exhibited  little  fits  of  envious  depreciation 
of  those  who,  she  fancied,  were  attracting  too  much  of  her 
husband's  attention.  Among  these  she  placed  Bonnie  Lesley, 
and  seemed  to  dislike  that  young  lady  more,  I  am  certain, 
than  circumstances  warranted. 

"  Heatherleigh  never  liked  Bonnie  Lesley,  you  may  take 
my  word  for  it,"  I  said  to  Polly,  after  both  she  and  Bonnie 
Lesley  were  married. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said,  sharply  ;  "  for  she  proposed  to  him, 
and  he  refused  her,  and  she  hated  him  ever  after,  because  he 
told  a  mutual  friend  that  she  was  born  without  a  soul. 
There  !  "  she  added,  breaking  into  a  humorous  laugh,  "  I 
have  told  you  the  secret :  but  I  could  not  help  it.  Though  I 
think,  after  that,  he  ought  to  have  stayed  away  from  the 
Lewisons'  and  never  seen  Bonnie  Lesley  again,  that  she 
might  forget  it." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  went  there  that  she  might  learn  to 
think  it  of  no  consequence,  and  so  forget  it." 

Franz  and  I  remained  for  yet  a  few  days  in  England,  in 
order  to  pay  a  flying  visit  to  the  Cumberland  lakes,  with 
which  my  friend  was  enchanted.  It  was  perhaps  a  cruel 


THE  DROPPED  GLOVE.  28} 

thing  to  show  that  piece  of  scenery  to  a  man  who  was  going 
back  to  Munich. 

On  the  day  preceding  our  departure  we  were  to  go  up  to  the 
Lewisons'  to  bid  them  and  Miss  Lesley  good-bye.  We  went, 
by  appointment,  in  the  morning.  Shortly  after  we  arrived, 
Mr.  Lewison,  having  to  go  into  the  city,  left ;  and  Mrs.  Lew- 
ison  taking  Franz  to  show  him  her  husband's  collection  of 
pictures,  [  was  left  alone  with  Bonnie  Lesley. 

"  What  do  think  of  all  that  I  told  you  the  other  day  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  What  do  you  think  of  my  marriage  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  you  and  Mr.  Morell  will  get  on  very  well  to- 
gether ;  for  I  fancy  you  will  take  pretty  much  the  same  views 
of  most  things." 

"  Now  that  is  just  it,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you  think  we 
should  be  running  a  great  risk  if  either  of  us  was  nursing  a 
grand  romantic  passion  ?  Haven't  you  seen  two  people 
married,  the  one  of  them  very  practical,  sensible,  and  matter- 
of-fact  ;  the  other  very  romantic,  and  very  miserable  because 
he  or  she  can't  get  the  other  to  be  responsive  to  the  senti- 
ment." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  saying  '  he  or  she,'  "  I  said.  "  In  such 
a  case,  it  is  always  the  man  who  is  romantically  fond  of  his 
wife,  and  the  wife  who  is  matter-of-fact." 

"Did  you  ever  see  two  people  married,  who  were  both 
capable  of  a  grand  romantic  passion,  you  know — of  heroic 
sentiment,  and  picturesque  resolves?  How  would  two  such 
people  condescend  to  be  bothered  by  ordinary  company? 
Wouldn't  they  always  be  wanting  to  be  in  a  boat  in  the  moon- 
light ;  even  although  she  had  a  house  to  look  after,  and  he 
had—" 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Lewison  and  Franz  appeared. 
There  was  a  third  figure  ;  and  there  was  something  in  the 
look  of  Bonnie  Lesley's  face  that  told  me  who  it  was.  I 
knew  that  the  figure  was  small  and  dressed  in  black,  and  then 
I  turned  and  looked  up,  and  found  the  beautiful  eyes  of  Kil- 
meny  there. 

What  did  they  say  ?  There  was  merely  an  embarrassed 
surprise  in  them  ;  and  I  saw  that  the  meeting,  which  had 
been  planned  by  Bonnie  Lesley,  was  as  unexpected  by  Hes- 
ter Burnham  as  it  had  been  by  me. 

She  came  forward. 

"  You  will   forgive  me  for  not  recognizing  you  the  other 
day,"  she  said,  in  her  gentle,  honest  way.     "But  why  did  you 
not  bring  your  friend  up  to  the  house  ?  " 
25 


286  KILMENY. 

It  was  impossible,  looking  at  those  eyes,  to  make  any  sham 
excuse  :  she  knew  why  I  had  avoided  seeing  her. 

"It  would  have  interested  him,  I  dare  say;  and  I  suppose 
he  has  already  told  you  how  much  he  was  delighted  with  the 
valley,  and  all  the  scenery  there,  and  Burnham  ? " 

"  I  never  knew  how  pretty  the  place  was  until  now,"  she 
said ;  and  her  eyes  were  wistful  and  far  away. 

"  Now,  young  people,"  said  Mrs.  Lewison,  "  I  can't  let  you 
go  down  to  this  picture-exhibition  without  taking  some  lunch 
first." 

"  But  you  are  coming,  are  you  not,  Mrs.  Lewison  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Hester  will  take  my  place,  and  look  after  you  all,  and 
bring  you  back  safely.  She  is  already  well  acquainted  with 
all  the  mysterious  duties  of  the  chaperone  and  the  house- 
keeper, and  is,  indeed,  the  oldest  young  person  I  know.  Are 
you  not,  Hester  ?  " 

"  A  chaperone  has  only  one  duty,"  said  Miss  Lesley,  "  and 
that  is  to  get  out  of  the  way,  or  fall  asleep  at  times ;  and  Hes- 
ter is  always  in  the  way,  and  never  sleeps.  She  is  like  a  dor- 
mouse that  lies  curled  up  and  small  and  warm,  and  all  the 
time  is  peeping  at  you  with  two  small  bright  eyes." 

"  But  then,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lewison,  "  it  can  be  of  no 
consequence  to  you,  now,  whether  your  chaperone  sleeps  or 
not." 

"  You  mean  it  can  be  of  no  consequence  to  Mr. — " 

But  Bonnie  Lesley  stopped,  and  laughed  and  blushed,  and 
Mr.  Morell's  name  was  not  mentioned. 

It  was  finally  arranged  that  the  young  ladies  should  get 
ready  to  go  out  while  luncheon  was  being  prepared  ;  and  so  it 
was  that  Franz  and  I  were  left  alone. 

"  This  is  terrible,"  said  he.  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  take 
lunch  with  your  English  ladies.  I  shall  commit  a  thousand 
gaucheries" 

"  Nonsense  !  Only  don't  cut  up  your  meat  in  small  pieces 
to  start  with,  and  don't  put  your  knife  to  your  mouth,  and 
don't  praise  anything  unless  you  are  asked.  That  is  all." 

Franz  did  not  enjoy  his  lunch.  In  the  first  place,  French 
was  a  tribulation  to  him.  Then  he  never  dared  touch  any- 
thing, or  use  any  knife,  spoon,  or  fork,  until  he  had  seen  some 
one  else  do  so.  But  he  acquitted  himself  perfectly ;  and  in 
due  time  we  were  in  the  old,  familiar  dark-green  brougham, 
and  drivjng  rapidly  down  towards  Pall  Mall. 

It  was  an  exhibition  of  water-colors  that  we  had  arranged 
to  visit.  But  the  exhibition  had  been  open  for  a  long  time  ; 
and  on  this  particular  morning  there  was  not  a  human  being 


THE  DROPPED  GLOVE.  287 

in  the  place  except  an  old  and  benevolent-looking  gentleman, 
with  white  hair,  who  sat  at  a  table  placed  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  and  calmly  read  the  morning's  news.  The  long 
room  was  warm  and  hushed ;  the  only  sound  the  occasional 
dropping  of  a  bit  of  cinder  from  the  grate.  The  thick  carpets 
dulled  your  footsteps  as  you  walked  across ;  and  there  was 
something  in  the  close,  still  atmosphere  which  tempted  you, 
for  no  particular  reason,  to  talk  in  a  whisper.  I  wondered 
that  the  elderly  gentleman  who  presided  over  the  catalogues 
had  not  fallen  asleep. 

Then  we  walked  straight  into  dreamland ;  and  found  our- 
selves in  all  manner  of  wonderful  places — now  looking  down 
into  some  Welsh  glen,  or  fronting  the  great  bridge  and  the 
broad  stream  and  the  lofty  Hradschin  of  Prague,  the  city  of 
all  cities  that  I  love  the  most.  We  had  only  to  move  a  few 
inches  in  order  to  whisk  ourselves  across  a  continent.  A 
slight  inclination  of  the  head,  and  we  changed  a  gray  and 
windy  morning  into  a  calm  and  yellow  evening.  Here  were 
bits  of  sea  off  the  Essex  coast,  cold  and  pale,  and  studded 
with  the  black  hulls  of  smacks  ;  and  here  were  sunny  glimpses 
of  the  white  houses  and  green  vines  of  Capri ;  and  here  were 
stretches  of  dark  Scotch  moors,  lonely  and  bleak ;  and  warm 
sunsets  down  among  the  Surrey  hills  ;  and  snow-scenes  in  the 
icy  wilds  of  Russia.  All  these  things  I  saw  reflected  in  Kil- 
meny's  eyes ;  and  I  fancied  that  her  face  caught  a  glow  from 
the  sunsets,  and  that  the  windy  coast-scenes  seemed  to  bring 
a  tinge  of  heightened  color  to  her  cheek.  We  two  had  wan- 
dered up  to  the  top  of  the  room  by  ourselves,  to  look  at  a 
picture  that  was  marked  in  the  catalogue  as  "  Sunset  in  the 
Oberinnthal."  This  picture  was  not  the  grandest  performance 
one  could  have  wished.  It  was  melodramatic  in  conception, 
and  pretentious  in  style ;  yet  it  was  exceedingly  like  the  great 
valley  that  stretches  along  to  Innsbruck,  and  it  gave  an  ex- 
cellent notion  of  the  intense  quiet  and  solitariness  of  the 
place.  The  sun  was  down,  and  while  the  peaks  of  the  lime- 
stone mountains  stood  bare  and  red  in  the  pale  green  sky, 
down  in  the  valley  there  lay  cold  mists,  with  a  few  orange 
points  gleaming  through  the  dusk,  where  a  village  lay  in  the 
valley.  There  was  no  other  sign  of  life ;  everything  was  as 
motionless  and  still  as  the  thin  white  crescent  of  the  moon 
that  was  faintly  visible  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset. 

"  You  have  just  been  there,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  We  walked  all  down  the  valley,  by  the  road  you 
see  there ;  and  it  was  as  still  and  quiet  as  you  see  it/for 


288  KILMENY. 

| 

we  came  along  there  in  the  evening.  Don't  you  think  it  is 
a  very  beautiful  valley  ?  " 

We  had  both  sat  down,  opposite  the  picture,  and  behind 
a  centre-screen  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
So  still  was  the  place,  and  so  completely  did  this  temporary 
partition  cut  us  off  even  from  our  two  companions,  that  it 
was  almost  possible  to  imagine  that  we  were  really  in  the 
Oberinnthal,  under  the  pale  sunset.  The  eyes  of  Kilmeny 
were  full  of  that  sunset.  They  had  the  strange,  dreamlike, 
distant  look  that  I  had  often  noticed  in  them — when,  if  you 
spoke  to  her,  she  seemed  to  have  to  recall  herself  from  a 
trance  before  she  could  answer. 

"  I  wish  that  we  two  could  be  there  now,"  I  said  to  her. 

I  had  grown  so  bold,  you  [see ;  for  it  was  as  if  I  were 
talking  in  a  dream,  and  as  if  she  were  far  away  from  me 
and  could  hardly  hear. 

"  If  you  and  I  could  be  down  there,  in  that  valley,  away 
from  England,"  I  said — and  I  scarcely  knew  that  I  was 
anxious  and  supplicating  as  I  watched  her  face — "  I  would 
tell  you  that  I  loved  you  dearly ;  that  I  have  worshipped 
you  from  afar  off  so  long,  not  daring  to  speak  to  you ;  that 
I  have  always  loved  you,  ever  since  I  used  to  watch  for  you, 
years  ago,  coming  down  from  Burnham.  And  if  we  were 
there  by  ourselves,  you  would  not  be  angry  with  me,  I  think, 
if  I  said  all  that.  You  might  tell  me  to  leave  you ;  but  you 
would  grant  something  to  the  love  that  I  have  for  you,  and 
let  us  part  as  friends." 

Then  I  knew  that  her  eyes  had  come  back  from  the 
picture,  and  were  looking  at  me  earnestly  and  sadly ;  and 
her  face  was  pale. 

"  You  would  say  that  if  we  were  in  Germany  ?  "  she  said, 
in  her  low,  tender  tones. 

"  And  you  would  believe  what  I  said,"  I  answered,  look- 
ing into  her  beautiful  face. 

"  But  it  is  too  soon  to  say  it  here,  in  England  ?  " 

With  that  she  rose  and  turned  away,  so  that  I  could  not 
meet  her  eyes  to  learn  what  she  was  thinking.  But  at  the 
same  moment  I  saw  her  rapidly  take  off  one  of  her  gloves ; 
and  somehow,  before  I  knew  what  had  occurred,  the  pale 
little  token  was  lying  just  beside  my  hand,  where  she  had 
dropped  it. 

Then  she  went,  and  I  remained  for  a  second  or  two 
stupefied,  and  scarcely  daring  to  believe  that  I  was  in 
actual,  secret  possession  of  this  glove.  I  rose,  stunned  with 
a  new,  bewildering  sense  of  joy  that  could  find  no  outlet  or 


( > t  'A'   77C I 'S TV  COi 'SA \ '.  289 

• 

expression ;  and  I  saw  that  she  had  joined  Miss  Lesley  and 
Franz. 

I  )id  they  notice  how  pale  she  was  ?  Did  they  notice 
that  one  small  hand  was  bare  ?  That,  at  least,  I  saw,  and 
my  joy  was  unspeakable;  for  the  little,  white  hand  of  my 
darling  told  me  that  the  glove  I  held  was  real,  and  mine. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

OUR    TRUSTY    COUSIN. 

"  WHAT  do  you  think,  then,  of  England  as  a  place  to  live 
in  ? "  I  asked  of  Franz,  as  we  stood  on  the  deck  of  the 
Calais  boat,  and  saw  the  wavering  lights  of  Dover  grow 
momentarily  more  and  more  dim  in  the  distance. 

"  I  am  not  an  Englishman,"  said  Franz.  "  I  can't  give 
you  a  decided  opinion  about  a  country,  and  its  people  and 
its  politics,  from  having  stayed  a  week  in  it." 

"  Well,  you  can  say  whether  you  would  like  to  remain  a 
year  or  two  in  London,  for  example." 

"  I  could  not  do  it.  London  seems  a  nice  place  for 
people  with  plenty  of  money  and  plenty  of  friends.  For 
me,  I  should  probably  shoot  myself  after  a  month  of  it. 
How  should  I  spend  my  evenings  ?  I  could  not  go  to  the 
theatres  every  night,  even  if  they  were  better  than  they 
seem  to  be.  Your  music-halls  are  the  natural  resort  of 
your  young  men  who  wish  to  amuse  themselves  in  the 
evening  ;  and  they — " 

Franz  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  understand  the  songs. 
Perhaps  they  were  clever.  But  I  do  not  see  the  reason 
why  men  and  women  should  applaud  and  laugh  merely  because 
a  man  comes  on  the  stage  in  the  dress  of  a  dandy.  He  can 
sing  no  more  than  a  cow — the  words  of  the  song  may  be 
good — " 

"  My  dear  friend,  the  wit  of  the  song  lies  in  the  color  and 
size  of  the  singer's  neckerchief." 

"  Then  the  outrageous  indecency  of  the  place,  with  the  po- 
lice stationed  as  guardians — " 

"  But  there  is  one  where  no  such  indecencv  is  permit- 
ted—" 

"  Why,"  said  Franz,  with  another  shrug,  "  if  decency  only 
means  conjuring  tricks  and  ventriloquism,  and  the  efforts  of 
19 


2QO  KILMENY. 

a  man  to  swing  chairs  with  his  teeth,  indecency  is  likely  to  be 
more  popular.  No,  your  London  is  not  to  me  a  lively  place. 
It  is  too  eager  and  busy,  too  hurried  and  too  ostentatious. 
I  like  your  old  country  towns  better ;  they  look  as  if  the  peo- 
ple in  them  were  content  to  live  reasonably  and  peaceably. 
You — will  you  live  in  London  or  in  that  valley,  when  your 
Lehrjahre  and  Wander jahre  are  all  over  ?  " 

"  I  ?  When  a  dozen  years  of  hard  work  have  brought  me 
sufficient  money  to  rent  Burnham  House,  I  mean  to  live 
there." 

"  The  young  lady  does  not  mean  to  sell  it,  then  ?  " 

"  She  will  never  sell  it,  if  she  can  help  it ;  and  I  fancy  she 
will  only  let  it  until  she  has  got  as  much  money  as  will  enable 
her  to  go  back  there,  free  from  the  difficulties  in  which  her 
cousin  entangled  her." 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  ?  " 

"  In  the  meantime  she  is  going  to  live  abroad — for  the  sake 
of  cheapness,  I  suppose." 

"  Shall  we  see  her  in  Munich  ?  "  said  Franz. 

44  How  should  I  know?" 

"  She  is  interested  in  Munich,  at  all  events,"  said  Franz. 
*'  She  sent  that  message  to  us  at  the  gates  of  Burnham,  just 
on  the  chance  of  our  having  come  from  Munich." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  yesterday  morning,  when  she  came  into  the 
room  where  Madame — your  friend  with  the  unpronounceable 
name — and  I  were.  She  recognized  me  at  once.  She  was 
very  gracious  to  me,  and  we  had  a  walk  around  the  pictures  ; 
and  I  became  so  good  friends  with  her  that  I  wished  I  could 
have  sat  down  and  played  my  zither  for  her.  But  I  saw  that 
I  made  a  blunder." 

"  How  ? " 

"  I  was  telling  her  stones,  prompted  by  the  different  pict- 
ures, you  know  ;  and  I  told  her  by  accident  of  a  poor  ignor- 
ant devil  of  a  painter  down  in  Waldshut  who  was  painting  a 
crucifix,  and  put '  R.  S.  V.  P.'  instead  of  '  I.  N.  R.  I.'  over  it. 
What  was  there  in  that  ?  Nothing.  But  she  did  not  like  it, 
I  could  see  ;  and  I  blamed  myself  for  talking  freely  to  one  of 
your  English  ladies,  without  knowing  their  peculiar  sensitive- 
ness. Your  Englishwomen  seem  very  tender  about  their  re- 
ligion, and  a  little  too  apprehensive,  I  think,  that  you  may 
be  an  enemy,  when  you  are  thinking  of  something  quite  dif- 
ferent," 

"  But  the  religion  of  the  country  rests  with  them  at  present," 
I  said,  "  and  they  do  right  to  be  vigilant  sentinels.  Wrhen- 


7'A't'sry  rcr.v/.r.  291 

ever  they  imagine  they  see  the  figure  of  Irreverence  stalking 
in  the  distance — " 

"  They  raise  a  clamor  like  that  which  saved  the  Capitol," 
said  Franz. 

I  suppose  Amphitrite  must  have  heard  this  remark,  and 
stirred  up  her  husband  to  revenge  her  sex  ;  for,  as  we  neared 
the  French  coast,  the  motion  of  the  vessel  became  much  more 
marked,  and  Franz,  against  all  persuasion,  was  fain  to  take 
the  fatal  step  of  going  below.  When  he  reappeared,  as  the 
boat  was  being  made  fast  to  the  stone  walls  of  Calais  pier, 
the  glare  of  a  lamp  showed  that  his  face  was  very  white,  and 
there  was  a  general  air  of  helplessness  about  the  person. 

"  I  won't  go  straight  on  to  Cologne,"  he  said,  when  he  got 
into  the  train.  "  I  shall  stop  the  day  in  Brussels,  and  go  on 
to-morrow." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  and  you  will  give  me  a  little  dinner 
at  the  Deux  Rois." 

We  spent  the  day  therefore  in  that  most  English  of  all  for- 
eign towns,  and,  having  dined  at  the  hostelry  aforesaid,  were 
going  down  to  the  Theatre  de  la  Monnaie.  In  passing 
through  the  Avenue  de  la  Reine,  which  was  crowded  with 
people,  who  walked  up  and  down  and  stared  at  each  other 
and  the  glaring  shops,  Franz  and  I  found  ourselves  behind 
three  men  who  were  clearly  English  in  costume  and  appear- 
ance. At  the  first  glance  I  fancied  I  recognized  tha  figure 
of  one  of  them ;  and  as  we  drew  nearer,  he  turned  to  look  in 
at  a  cigar-shop.  I  saw  then  that  he  was  a  man  of  about  thirty- 
five,  dressed  rather  ostentatiously,  who  was  more  than  sus- 
pected of  being  a  billiard-sharper  when  we  were  at  Brighton. 
At  all  events,  he  was  politely  requested  by  more  than  one  ho- 
tel-manager not  to  make  his  appearance  again  in  their  billiard- 
rooms  ;  and  it  was  understood  that  he  received  the  intimation 
meekly. 

The  second  of  the  group  was  a  handsome  and  healthy-look- 
ing b3y  of  about  eighteen,  who  was  neatly  and  fashionably 
dressed,  and  who  had  an  unmistakable  look  of  virgin  green- 
ness about  his  face.  He  was  a  gentlemanly-looking  lad,  and 
his  face  gave  you  the  impression  that  his  sisters  would  prob- 
able be  remarkably  pretty.  When  he  turned,  also,  to  look  in 
at  the  display  of  meerschaum-pipes  in  the  tobacconist's  win- 
dow, I  caught  sight  of  his  other  campanion.  It  was  Alfred 
Burnham.  He  looked  twenty  years  older  than  when  I  had 
seen  him  last ;  and  there  was  a  hard,  hawk-like  look  about 
his  face  that  was  far  from  being  prepossessing.  He  was  well- 


292  KILMENY. 

dressed,  too  ;  but  he  had  lost  the  swaggering  air  he  used  to 
assume. 

What  struck  me  as  being  very  peculiar  was  the  officious 
complaisance  which  both  these  men  paid  to  the  boy  between 
them.  Alfred  Burnham  had  never,  as  a  rule,  striven  to 
make  himself  very  agreeable  to  the  people  around  him ;  but 
now  he  was  trying  to  look  particularly  amiable,  and  was 
doing  his  best  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  young  man 
beside  him.  So,  also,  with  his  friend  from  Brighton,  whose 
eagerness  to  be  of  service  was  more  that  of  a  valet  than  of  a 
companion. 

The  object  of  these  favors  did  not  seem  quite  to  relish 
them.  There  was  a  certain  coldness  in  his  responses  to  his 
amiability ;  but,  all  the  same,  he  seemed  to  assent  to  a  prop- 
osition that  they  made,  and  the  three  walked  off  together. 

I  told  Franz  who  they  were. 

"  Shall  we  follow  them  ? "  he  said.  "  We  may  see  more 
with  them  than  in  the  theatre." 

We  did  follow  them,  but  we  had  not  far  to  go.  They 
entered  a  restaurant,  went  up-stairs  and  ordered  some  wine. 
It  was  rather  a  fashionable  place ;  and,  as  the  dining-rooms 
were  down-stairs,  this  room  with  its  red-velvet  chairs  and  couch- 
es, and  its  small  marble  tables,  was  kept  as  a  coffee  and  smok- 
ing room.  It  was  a  large  place,  and  there  were  two  or  three 
people  in  it,  some  talking,  others  smoking  and  playing 
dominoes.  Franz  and  I  sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables  out  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  where  there  was  least  light ;  while  we 
could  easily  see  the  other  three,  who  were  under  the  glare  of 
the  reflection  from  the  white  wall.  We  could  also  hear  what 
they  said  at  times,  as  they  seemed  to  have  every  confidence 
in  no  one  but  themselves  understanding  English. 

They  played  dominoes,  at  five  francs  the  game,  and  fifty 
centimes  each  time  a  double-six  was  played.  This  com- 
paratively harmless  form  of  amusement  was  proceeded  with 
for  some  time,  while  wine  was  liberally  drunk.  It  was 
noticeable,  however,  that,  out  of  mere  courtesy,  Alfred 
Burnham  kept  his  young  friend's  glass  constantly  filled ;  and 
as  the  latter  was  smoking  what  seemed  a  strong  and  oily 
cigar,  he  drank  at  the  same  time  a  good  deal  of  the  sparkling, 
pale  wine  that  was  so  generously  offered  him. 

"  I  have  won  eight  francs,"  said  Burnham,  with  a  laugh. 
"I  must  go  home  now,  and  carry  off  my  winnings.  How 
much  have  you  won,  my  lord  ?  " 

"Twenty-six  or  twenty-seven,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a 
louder  laugh  ;  and  his  eyes  now  flushed. 


orx  Txrsry  cors/.v.  293 

"  Then  I  must  be  the  loser,"  said  the  oldest  of  the  three, 
with  ;i  resigned  air.  "  Such  is  luck.  Shall  we  go  back  to 
the  hotel  now,  Sir  Charles  ? " 

So  Mr.  Burnham  had  become  Sir  Charles  Somebody. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  Charles,  rising,  and  concealing  a  yawn  ; 
11 1  feel  rather  tired." 

"  Let  us  make  a  sweepstakes  of  our  winnings,  Sir  Charles," 
said  the  young  man.  "I  will  put  my  twenty-six  francs 
against  your  eight,  and  we  will  cut  for  it." 

"  I  could  not  be  guilty  of  such  a  piece  of  robbery,"  said  Burn- 
ham,  with  another  laugh.  "  But  if  you  mean  to  cut  until  one 
of  us  shall  have  lost  his  winnings,  let  us  do  it  with  cards. 
Here,  garcon!" 

"Oui,  m'sieur!" 

"  Allez,  apportez-moi — achetez  pour  moi  un — un — un  jeu 
de  cartes  anglaises ;  comprenez-vous  ?  II  faut  qu'elles  soient 
neuves." 

"  Bien,  m'sieur !  " 

Burnham  turned  to  his  companions  with  a  sort  of  apology 
for  his  hesitating  French,  and  remarked  that  it  was  a  pity  all 
the  world  had  not  been  born  in  Buckinghamshire. 

"You  know  Bucks?"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  vinous 
delight.  "  Why,  there  is  no  one  in  the  county  I  don't  know. 
Are  you  acquainted  with  the  Beckfords  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Alfred  Burnham,  hastily.  I  said  Bucks  by 
chance.  I  know  little  of  the  county  beyond  having  ridden 
through  it  once  or  twice.  I  am  from  the  north." 

"  From  the  fens,  or  the  Ridings,  or — " 

"  Westmoreland,"  said  Sir  Charles ;  and  then  he  abruptly 
changed  the  subject. 

The  cards  were  brought,  and  some  more  wine.  They  cut  for 
francs  at  first,  and  Sir  Charles  won.  Then  they  cut  for  five 
francs,  in  order  to  get  it  over  the  sooner ;  and  fortune  kept 
pretty  steady. 

"  You  must  let  me  join,"  said  the  person  from  Brighton. 
"  I  can't  let  you  have  all  the  fun  to  yourself.  Suppose  that 
I,  too,  have  won  twenty-five  francs ;  and  let  us  go  on  cutting 
until  some  one  has  won  the  whole." 

"Agreed,"  said  Sir  Charles;  and  they  went  on  shuffling 
and  cutting  the  cards. 

Now  this  ingenious  game  of  winning  or  losing  money  by 
cutting  for  the  highest  card  is  a  sufficiently  fair  trial  of 
chances,  under  ordinary  circumstances  ;  but  the  young  gentle- 
man who  was  thus  amusing  himself  must  have  been  particu- 
larly innocent  when  he  did  not  perceive  that  the  odds  were 


294  KILMENY. 

considerably  against  his  winning.  He  did  not  seem  to  reflect 
on  the  possibility  of  his  two  opponents  being  in  collusion, 
however;  and  so  they  went  on  drinking  and  smoking  and 
cutting  the  cards,  until,  by  an  easy  transition,  sovereigns  came 
to  be  staked  instead  of  francs,  and  at  length  I  saw  mysterious 
pieces  of  paper  being  handed  across  the  table,  with  a  scrawled 
signature  thereon. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  ask  what  was  the  value  of  the 
I.O.U.'s  against  which  he  was  staking  his  own  signature. 

"  Hadn't  we  better  stop  ? "  said  the  eldest  of  them. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  young  man,  who  was  now  half-tipsy. 
"  Let  us  have  one  or  two  more — good  big  ones.  I  have  lost 
t'  much.  Luck  must  turn." 

But  there  was  no  luck  in  the  matter.  There  was  a  dead 
certainty  of  his  losing ;  and  he  lost. 

"  How  these  things  mount  up  with  your  confounded 
*  double  or  quits  !  "  said  Burnham  to  his  colleague.  "  Do  you 
know  how  much  money  I  have  won  from  you  ? " 

"  Haven't  the  faintest  idea  !  "  said  the  other  ,  and,  indeed, 
there  was  little  reason  why  he  should  care. 

"  One  hundred  and  thirty-two  pounds,  as  near  as  I  can 
make  out." 

"  The  devil ! " 

"  And  how  much  do  I  owe  you,  my  lord  ?  "  said  Burnham. 

The  young  man  pushed  all  the  bits  of  paper  over  to  him, 

"  Look  for  yourself  ?  "  he  said/with  an  indolent,  intoxicated 
gesture.  "  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  them." 

Alfred  Burnham  looked  over  the  papers. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  said,  "  I  find  that  I  owe  you  £60.  Shall 
I  give  an  I.O.U.  for  the  amount  to  Mr.  Temple,  and  that  will 
be  so  much  towards  what  you  owe  him  ?  Then  he  can  arrange 
with  me,  when  he  pays  me  what  he  owes  me." 

"All  right,  all  right;  it  will  save  trouble.  Then  I  owe  you 
something  still,  Mr. — Mr.  Temple  ? " 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Temple,  calmly  holding  out  certain 
pieces  of  paper.  "  I  find  here  I.O.U.'s  for  £380.  With  the 
£60  deducted,  the  amount  will  be  ^"320." 

The  boy  was  sobered  in  an  instant. 

"  Three  hundred  and  twenty  !  "  he  said,  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  with  his  face  blanched — perhaps  more  with  anger  than 
with  dismay. 

I  think  he  would  have  broken  into  some  angry  denuncia- 
tions but  that  both  of  the  two  men  kept  their  eyes  fixed  on 
him,  and  Temple  said,  coldly — 

"Yes,  my  lord,  that  is  the  sum..    Will  you  give  me  a  note 


OUR  TRUSTY  COUSIN.  295 

of  hand  far  the  whole  amount,  or  shall  I  call  upon  you  at 
your  hotel  with  these  papers  ?  " 

"Come  to  my  hotel  to-morrow  morning,"  said  the  lad  ;  and 
the  way  in  which  he  said  so  showed  that  he  now  perceived  the 
character  of  the  man  with  whom  he  was  dealing. 

At  this  moment  I  walked  over  to  the  small  table  at  which 
they  sat  and  lit  a  bit  of  paper  at  the  gas  overhead.  While 
doing  so  I  looked  at  Alfred  Burnham,  and  he  grew  suddenly 
pale. 

"  Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Burnham  ?  "  I  said  ;  "  who 
would  have  expected  to  see  you  in  Brussels  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  on  in  amazement.  To  hear  Sir  Charles 
addressed  as  Mr.  Burnham  told  him  whatever  he  had  not 
already  divined. 

"Who  the are  you  ?  I  don't  know  you  !  "  said  Burn- 
ham,  furiously. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  I  said,  lighting  my  cigar,  "for  I 
have  just  seen  several  of  your  friends  in  England,  who  would 
be  glad  of  your  address.  They  seem  to  have  lost  sight  of 
you  since  you  left — Westmoreland." 

I  had  nearly  said  Burnham,  but  I  rememberd  on  the  instant 
that  the  young  lord  had  boasted  of  his  acquaintance  with 
every  family  in  Bucks,  and  I  thought  that  he  might  connect 
this  man  with  the  lady  who  was  known  to  be  the  mistress  of 
Burnham  House.  Had  I  had  less  interest  in  the  matter,  I 
should  have  been  even  then  loth  to  have  Hester  Burnham 
recognized  as  a  friend  or  relative  of  a  common  swindler. 
Meanwhile,  the  hint  about  his  address  seemed  to  have  mad- 
dened him.  He  swore  a  furious  oath,  and  jumped  to  his 
feet.  Franz  came  over  just  then,  and  also  produced  a  cigar. 

"  Was  wunscht  cler  Dummkopf  ?  "  he  said,  coolly. 

"  For  God's  sake,  let  us  have  no  fighting,"  said  Temple. 

"  As  you  please,"  I  said  ;  "  but  perhaps  you  will  give  this 
young  gentleman  your  real  names  and  addresses  when  next 
you  play  with  him.  And  perhaps,  before  he  pays  you  to- 
morrow, he  will  get  somebody  to  inquire  about  them.  '  Good- 
evening,  Mr.  Burnham." 

So  Franz  and  I  turned  and  left. 

''Lucky  for  you,"  said  Franz,  "that  Burnham  hadn't  a 
revolver  in  his  pocket.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  clearly  look 
murder  as  he  did  just  now." 

The  lad  who  had  been  playing  with  them  came  running 
down  after  us,  and  overtook  us  just  as  we  were  leaving. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  he  said — "  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  have 
been  swindled.  I  have  been  robbed." 


296  KILMENY. 

"You  might  have  found  that  out  a  little  earlier,"  said  I. 

"  But  I  won't  pay  these  I.  O.  U.'s— " 

"  You  will  be  a  considerable  ass  if  you  do.  Go  straight  up 
to  the  Commissary  of  Police  ;  state  your  case,  and  ask  his 
advice.  If  either  calls  for  payment  in  the  morning — which  is 
far  from  likely — refer  him  to  your  friend  the  Commissary,  and 
recommend  him  to  leave  Brussels." 

"  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  sufficiently  ?  It  is  not  the 
amount,  but  the  disgrace  of  being  swindled,  that  I  should  have 
dreaded.  How  can  I  repay  you  ? " 

"  Well,  in  this  way.  When  you  tell  your  English  friends 
how  two  of  your  countrymen  tried  to  swindle  you,  don't  say 
that  one  of  them  was  called  Burnham.  He  will  achieve  fame 
soon  enough.  That  is  all  I  ask  of  you." 

"  I  promise  faithfully.  But — but  won't  you  come  and  dine 
with  me  ?  " 

I  believe  the  boy  was  actually  afraid  of  being  left  alone,  lest 
his  friends  the  card-players  should  follow  and  threaten  him. 

"Thank  you,"  I  said;  "  I  fancied  you  had  dined  sufficient- 
ly before  you  sat  down  to  play  cards  with  two  strangers.  And 
we  were  going  to  the  theatre,  when  the  amusement  of  watch- 
ing you  and  them  enticed  us  to  wait.  We  shall  be  in  time  for 
the  operetta,  however  ;  and  so,  good-night !  " 

"Good-night ;  and  thank  you  very  much." 

"  Your  English  families  should  keep  their  children  in  the 
nursery  until  they  are  able  to  take  care  of  themselves  out-of- 
doors,"  said  Franz. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

IN    MUNICH   AGAIN. 

LINELE  was  in  a  particularly  kindly  mood  when  we  arrived. 
Franz  had  merely  called  at  his  lodgings  in  passing,  to  leave 
his  luggage  and  top-coat,  and  bring  his  zither  with  him ;  then 
we  drove  on  in  the  droschke  to  the  Konigin  Strasse,  and 
made  our  appearance  in  the  Professor's  house. 

Lena  received  us  with  the  dignity  of  a  small  empress.  She 
allowed  Franz  to  kiss  her  hand ;  and  answered  in  a  stately 
manner  his  inquiries  after  the  health  of  Annele.  But  her 
decorum  quite  broke  down  when  Franz  took  out  of  a  box  a 
remarkably  pretty  fan,  and  presented  it  to  her.  She  looked 
at  it  all  round,  and  opened  it,  and  shut  it,  and  then  kissed  it 


/A"  ML  VT/CY7  A  GA L\ :  -'97 

affectionately,  and  put  it  in  the  box  again.  I  think  she  would 
have  kissed  Franz,  too,  if  nobody  had  been  by  ;  for  had  he  not 
brought  a  handsome  volume  of  engravings  for  the  Herr  Papa, 
and  a  wonderful  case  of  housewifely  implements,  all  real 
English  cutlery,  for  the  Frau  Mamma  ?  No  prospective  son- 
in-law  could  have  done  more. 

The  evening  was  devoted  to  the  questioning  of  Franz  about 
his  foreign  experiences.  The  Professor  would  know  every- 
thing about  the  galleries,  and  the  architecture  of  the  principal 
towns,  and  so  forth  ;  Linele's  mamma  was  curious  to  know  how 
people  lived  in  a  land  that  was  so  full  of  money — what  and 
when  they  ate,  and  whether  everything  was  comfortable  in 
proportion  to  its  expense ;  while  Lena  herself  would  know 
how  the  young  ladies  of  London  looked,  and  where  they  walked 
in  the  constant  rains  and  fogs,  and  what  sort  of  dresses  they 
wore  in  such  a  climate.  Then  she  took  out  the  fan  again, 
and  asked  Franz  if  he  had  seen  the  opera-house  rilled  with 
the  richest  ladies  in  the  world,  and  whether  they  were  all 
loaded  with  diamonds,  and  gleaming  in  white  satins  and 
silks. 

"  Papa,"  cried  Linele,  petulantly,  "  I  don't  believe  he  has 
been  in  England  at  all.  He  has  seen  nothing  different,  noth- 
ing strange  ;  and  I  believe  they  have  been  away  hiding  some- 
where, to  escape  their  painting,  and  play  billiards  and  go  to 
the  theatre.  It  is  wicked  of  them  to  deceive  us,  isn't  it,  papa  ? 
And  you  won't  take  the  engravings,  will  you  ? — and  I  will 
give  him  back  the  fan,  for  it  never  came  from  England,  I 
know ! " 

The  Professor  looked  up  in  mute  bewilderment.  He  had 
been  looking  at  an  engraving  of-  one  of  Turner's  Italian  land- 
scapes, and  had  got  lost  there.  But  the  mamma  said — 

"  Now,  now,  Linele,  don't  bother  Mr.  Frank,  when  he  has 
been  so  kind  to  you.  And  you  have  never  even  thanked  Mr. 
Edward  for  the  pretty  necklace  he  has  given  you — " 

"  But  I  have  put  it  round  my  neck  :  isn't  that  enough  for 
him  ?  "  said  Linele,  proudly. 

"  And,  instead  of  bothering  the  gentlemen,  you  might  go 
and  get  up  two  bottles  of  the  red  Rhinewine,  since  this  is  a 
grand  occasion — " 

"  But  we  have  just  been  drinking  beer  as  we  came  along," 
said  Franz. 

"  That  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  Frau  Professor,  with  a  sage 
nod  of  the  head.  "  You  know  what  they  say — 

'  Wein  auf  Bier,  das  rath*  ich  dir  ; 
Bier  auf  Wein.  das  lass  du  sein  ! ' 


298  KILMENY. 

There  is  sense  in  that.  Go  along  with  you,  Lena,  and  make 
yourself  useful." 

Presently  Lena  appeared,  making  a  great  fuss  about  carry- 
ing the  two  bottles  of  Assmanshauser,  and  pretending  to  be 
greatly  fatigued  by  their  weight.  Then  she  placed  them 
jauntily  on  the  table,  and  went  for  glasses,  and  put  them  down 
with  a  saucy  air. 

"  In  England,  young  ladies  don't  wait  upon  gentlemen," 
said  Lena,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"  More's  the  pity,  then,"  said  her  mother,  sharply.  "  What 
do  they  do  then,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  They  drive  in  carriages,  and  dress  in  silk,  and  sit  at  table 
like  queens,  and  have  all  the  gentlemen  serve  them,"  said 
Linele. 

"  And  have  the  gentlemen  nothing  to  do,  either  ?  "  said  the 
mamma,  with  a  touch  of  scorn. 

14  They  can't  do  anything  better  than  wait  upon  ladies,"  re- 
torted Linele. 

"  Your  head  is  full  of  wool,  Lena,"  said  the  mamma  ;  and 
that  stopped  the  discussion  for  the  moment. 

So  we  settled  down  to  our  ordinary  work  again ;  and  in 
process  of  time  I  got  my  "  Wolunder  "  finished.  The  Pro- 
fessor had  taken  great  interest  in  the  progress  of  the  work,  and 
had  materially  helped  me  by  plenty  of  sound  suggestion  and 
able  criticism.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  my  way  more  surely 
now,  and  to  be  able  to  test  in  a  measure  the  value  of  what  I 
was  doing.  "  Kilmeny  "  had  been  more  of  a  surprise  to  my- 
self than  it  could  have  been  to  anybody  else ;  but  the  tech- 
nical knowledge  I  had  acquired  under  the  Professor's  care, 
added  to  the  effect  of  his  lectures  upon  the  various  qualities 
of  the  Pinathothek  masters,  gave  me  a  better  notion  of  what 
I  could  do,  and  what  I  could  not  do,  myself.  I  knew  that 
this  picture  was  freer  in  manner  and  altogether  more  mature 
than  its  predecessor ;  and  I  was  so  far  convinced  of  this  that 
I  formed  the  project  of  offering  "Wolundur"  to  Mr.  Webb 
in  exchange  for  "  Kilmeny,"  which  I  was  desirous,  for  many 
reasons,  of  getting  into  my  own  hands. 

When  it  was  finished,  I  consigned  the  picture  to  Heather- 
leigh's  care.  He  had  undertaken  to  send  it  into  the  Academy. 
In  the  interim,  however,  I  received  a  long  letter  from  him, 
expressing  his  own  opinions  about  the  thing,  and  saying  that 
he  had  shown  it,  among  others,  to  the  Jew-dealer  whom  I 
knew. 

"  He  offers  you,"  he  wrote,  "  four  hundred  guineas  for  the 
work.  I  hope  your  brain  won't  be  turned  by  the  announce- 


IN  MUNICH  AGAIN,  299 

mcnt,  which  means  more  than  you  fancy.  Old  Solomons 
pays  a  man  according  to  the  reputation  he  has  made  ;  merely 
because  it  is  that  alone  which  has  any  weight  with  the  majority 
of  his  customers  ;  and  therefore  you  may  have  some  idea  of 
what  *  Kilmeny '  has  earned  for  you.  But  I  would  not  close 
with  him,  it"  I  were  you.  Send  the  picture  into  the  Academy, 
and  let  it  take  its  chance.  If  it  does  what  I  expect  it  will  do, 
you  will  be  inundated  with  commissions,  which  for  yet  a  year 
or  two  you  should  undertake  most  sparingly.  The  results  of 
your  stay  in  Munich  are  apparent  in  every  part  of  this 
picture,"  etc.,  etc. 

He  was  strongly  opposed  to  my  bartering  the  picture  for 
"  Kilmeny  ; "  but  seeing  that  I  persisted  in  the  notion,  he 
went  to  Mr,  Webb  and  laid  the  matter  before  him.  Then, 
as  before  and  since,  that  gentleman  acted  in  a  manner  which 
any  one,  regarding  his  dry,  timid  manner  and  cold  look,  would 
scarcely  have  expected  from  him.  That  is  to  say,  instead  of 
treating  me,  a  stranger  to  him,  in  an  ordinary  businesslike 
manner,  he  showed  a  frank  generosity  and  fairness  which,  I 
regret  to  say,  surprised  me.  For  I  had  not  met  many  En- 
glish gentlemen;  and  there  still  hung  about  me  a  half- 
conscious  apprehension,  begotten  of  niy  experience  of  Weavle, 
that  every  stranger  to  you  must  necessarily  be  on  the  out- 
look to  take  advantage  of  you  for  his  own  benefit 

As  before,  Mr.  Webb  placed  himself,  as  a  purchaser,  in 
open  competition  with  everybody  else.  Having  seen  the  pic- 
ture, he  expressed  his  willingness  to  give  as  much  for  it  as 
any  purchaser  might  offer  after  it  had  been  exhibited  in  the 
Academy — then  to  deduct  from  this  sum  the  price  he  had 
paid  for  "  Kilmeny,"  and  send  me  the  latter  picture,  with  the 
difference  in  money. 

The  difference,  when  it  came,  was  nearly  two  hundred 
guineas.  The  draft  was  made  payable  on  a  Munich  banker; 
and  when  I  got  the  slip  of  paper,  1  endeavored  to  fancy  my- 
self ten  years  younger,  and  to  picture  what  I  should  have 
thought  in  Weavle 's  shop  of  becoming  the  owner  of  such  a 
sum. 

"  Kilmeny  "  for  the  present  was  to  remain  with  Mr.  Webb  : 
it  was  useless  to  send  it  over  to  Munich,  when  in  a  few 
months  I  might  be  returning  to  England. 

On  receipt  of  this  money,  I  kept  up  a  good  old  English 
custom  in  a  foreign  land.  I  invited  the  Professor,  his  wife, 
and  Lena,  Franz,  Silber,  and  one  or  two  others,  to  a  dinner 
at  a  restaurant.  The  little  black-eyed  actress  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  come,  notwithstanding  it  was  represented  to  her 


300  KILMENY. 

that  we  should  be  in  a  private  room,  and  unseen  by  the  vul- 
gar gossips  of  the  city.  She  pleaded  a  late  rehearsal,  though 
I  fancy  her  mamma's  notions  of  propriety  had  something  to 
do  with  it. 

We  were  a  very  merry  party ;  and  even  Silber  forgot  to 
look  miserable,  and  was  for  carrying  his  complaisance  to  the 
extent  of  singing  a  song  after  dinner — a  gratification  which 
we  managed  to  escape.  Instead  we  all  went  over  to  a  box 
which  I  had  secured  at  the  Hoftheater ;  and  there  Linele, 
who  had  dressed  her  hair  in  the  English  fashion,  sat  like  a 
little  princess  at  the  front  of  the  box,  and  displayed  the  gleam- 
ing fan  that  Franz  had  given  her. 

It  was  "  Linda  "  they  sang  ;  and  the  good  mamma  sat  and 
cried  a  little,  covertly,  over  the  pretty  story  of  Linda's  trials 
and  faithfulness,  and  ultimate  reward. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

KILMENY  COMES  HOME. 

WAS  I  free  at  last,  only  to  be  tired  of  my  freedom  ?    I  could 

?o  where  I  liked  ;  I  could  spend  my  time  as  it  pleased  me ; 
had  money  at  command,  and  was  my  own  master ;  I  was 
afraid  of  no  man,  and  knew  that  I  had  the  power  to  compel 
the  future  to  be  serviceable  to  me,  so  that  I  could  take  up 
my  abode  in  any  part  of  Europe,  and  feel  sure  of  being  able 
to  live  there  in  comfort  and  peace. 

Or  I  could  travel  about  from  city  to  city,  from  village  to 
village,  stopping  here  and  there  as  I  chose,  and  seeing  men 
and  manners  and  things.  The  world  was  before  me ;  and, 
in  so  much  as  I  cared  for  it,  I  was  its  master.  I  could  make 
it  yield  me  the  things  that  I  wanted,  for  my  needs  were  not 
great.  The  chiefest  of  them  had  been  all  along  this  freedom 
from  control,  and  now  I  had  achieved  it. 

I  had  achieved  it  only  to  find  that  independence  meant 
isolation.  There  were  no  kindly  bonds  of  duty  governing  my 
daily  actions,  and  yielding  the  pleasures  of  self  sacrifice. 
There  was  no  obligation  connected  with  my  art-efforts ;  on 
the  contrary,  they  were  the  keenest  delight  I  experienced,  and 
following  them  was  in  no  sense  a  duty.  Outside  of  this  pur- 
suit, I  had  nothing  particular  to  live  for ;  and  I  was  beginning 
to  weary  of  too  much  content,  that  poor  sort  of  sunshine  that 
lights  up  the  narrow  world  of  selfishness. 


KILMEXY  COMES  HOME.  301 

"  Will  Hester  Burnham  ever  come  to  redeem  her  pledge  ?  " 
I  used  to  think.  "Will  it  ever  happen  that  the  dream  I 
dreamed  in  the  Tyrol  will  come  true,  and  we  together  shall 
go  down  through  the  wonderful  valley,  all  by  ourselves?" 
Will  it  ever  happen  that  each  day  shall  be  filled  with  the 
numberless  duties  of  love  ;  and  that  I  shall  have  to  watch 
over  my  darling,  and  tend  her,  and  keep  her  safe  from  the 
cold  winds  and  the  rain  ?  " 

There  was  no  sign  or  word  from  her  away  in  England." 
The  many  letters  I  got  from  various  people  mentioned  her 
only  by  chance,  and  then  said  nothing  definite.  She  was 
supposed  to  be  waiting  to  see  how  matters  should  be  arrang- 
ed about  the  letting  of  Burnham,  and  the  clearance  of  the 
obligations  which  her  cousin's  kindness  had  imposed  upon 
her.  Indeed,  my  correspondents  were  too  busy  to  waste  much 
time  in  speculation.  Bonnie  Lesley  was  preparing  for  her 
marriage ;  Heatherleigh  had  married,  and  was  engaged  in 
decorating  with  his  own  handiwork  a  small  house  he  had 
bought  up  at  Hampstead.  He  and  Polly  had  persuaded  my 
mother  to  go  and  live  with  them ;  for  Polly,  said  Heather- 
leigh, would  bother  him  all  day  in  his  studio  unless  she  had 
somebody  else  to  talk  to  and  make  jokes  with. 

"But  you  ought  not  to  take  a  mother-in-law  into  your 
house,''  said  my  mother,  with  a  smile. 

"But  I  shall  want  all  your  help,"  said  Polly,  wickedly. 
"  For  you  don't  know  what  a  miser  he  has  grown  of  late ; 
and  unless  we  are  two  to  one,  it  will  be  impossible  to  keep 
the  house  in  any  comfort.  Do  you  know,  my  dear,  that  five 
minutes  after  we  were  married,  he  took  off  his  gloves,  rolled 
them  up,  and  put  them  in  his  pocket,  saying  they  would  do 
for  the  first  time  we  went  to  the  theatre  ?  Did  miserliness 
ever  go  further;  and  on  his  marriage-day,  too  ?  " 

I  learned,  indeed,  from  my  mother  that  Polly  regarded  her 
housekeeping  as  an  elaborate  joke,  and  that  she  spent  the 
better  part  of  the  day  in  laughing  over  the  eccentricities  of 
an  Irish  maid-servant  who  was  in  the  house,  and  in  laying 
traps  to  exhibit  the  artless  blunders  of  that  young  woman. 
Yet  Polly,  in  spite  of  her  imitations  of  the  butcher-boy,  and 
her  fits  of  laughter  over  the  courtesies  of  the  milk-man  to  the 
Irish  maid-servant  aforesaid,  looked  sharply  and  actively 
after  her  domestic  affairs,  and  made  a  capital  wife.  Heath- 
erleigh, too,  I  heard,  had  grown  ten  years  younger  since  his 
marriage ;  and  he  and  Polly,  when  all  the  day's  work  of  each 
was  over,  and  when  they  sat  down  to  supper,  were  in  the 


3C2  KILMENY. 

habit  of  conducting-  themselves  pretty  mucli  like  a  couple  of 
children,  instead  of  two  grown-up  and  married  persons. 

Such  was  the  news  that  came  from  England ;  and  I  was 
glad  that,  amid  the  din  and  clamor  of  eager  money-getting, 
there  were  some  who  could  find  a  quiet  household  for  them- 
selves, and  peace  therein.  As  for  the  houseless  one — where 
was  she  ? 

I  forgot  now  to  look  with  any  interest  across  the  trees  of 
the  "English  Garden/'  I  had  lost  all  hope  of  seeing  her 
walk  across  that  patch  of  level  green ;  not  that  her  coming 
was  any  less  likely  than  it  had  ever  been,  but  that  I  had 
grown  to  see  that  it  had  never  been  likely.  The  time  for 
such  miracles  was  over,  and  it  did  no  good  to  dream  of 
them. 

But  one  morning,  as  I  was  passing  through  the  Promena- 
clenplatz,  on  my  way  to  the  Nibelungen  frescos,  I  saw  two 
ladies  pass  into  the  courtyard  of  the  Bavarian  Hotel.  I  only 
caught  a  glimpse  of  them  as  they  turned  the  corner ;  and  yet 
that  glimpse  made  my  heart  beat.  If  it  were  really  she,  at 
last,  and  the  small  Madame  Laboureau  ? 

I  walked  up  to  the  front  of  the  courtyard,  and  looked  in. 
There  was  no  one  there  but  the  ordinary  troupe  of  commis- 
sionaires, porters,  and  droschke-drivers.  I  begged  permission, 
however,  to  look  over  the  large  board  on  which  the  names  of 
the  various  visitors  at  the  hotels  are  inscribed.  I  hurriedly 
went  over  the  bits  of  pasteboard — meeting  with  French 
countesses,  German  barons,  Russian  princes,  and  what  not ; 
but  there  was  no  mention  of  the  name  I  looked  for,  so  I 
turned  away.  It  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  been  mistaken 
in  fancying  I  saw  the  slight,  graceful  figure  I  knew  so  well 
in  the  streets  of  Munich. 

I  went  along  to  the  Festsaalbau,  met  the  Professor  and 
one  or  two  of  his  students,  and.  remained  there  for  about  an 
hour.  Then  we  left ;  and,  as  the  others  were  going  clown  to 
the  old  Pinathothek,  I  set  out  for  a  saunter  up  to  the  Isar. 

I  suppose  you  know  the  Max-Josephsplatz — the  splendid 
square  which  is  surrounded  by  the  palace  and  the  theatre  and 
the  postoffice,  which  looks  like  another  palace.  As  I  turned 
into  this  square — all  bright  and  clear  as  it  was  in  the  sun- 
light— I  saw,  crossing  the  corner  and  coming  towards  me,  the 
figure  I  had  seen  in  the  morning.  Was  it  true,  then,  that 
the  wandering  possibility  that  had  haunted  me  through  all 
these  long  months  was  at  last  real  and  true  ?  Was  Hester 
Burnham  really  in  Munich ;  and  should  I  actually  hear  her 
speak,  away  over  here,  in  this  strange  land  ? 


KII.MENY  COMES  HOME.  303 

I  hastened  after  her,  as  she  went  across  the  square  towards 
the  Maximilian  Strasse.  She  glanced  up  at  the  statue  of  the 
king,  and  I  saw  the  outline  of  her  features.  Then  I  over- 
took her,  and  she  stopped,  and  I  found  her  hand  in  mine. 
There  was  a  pale,  strange  joy  in  her  face. 

"  You  have  come  to  me  at  last,"  I  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  For  altogether  ?  " 

It  was  her  eyes  that  spoke  the  answer ;  and  there,  in  the 
open  streets  of  Munich,  I  could  have  knelt  down  and  kissed 
her  hand. 

She  and  Madame  Laboureau  had  arrived  that  morning; 
the  hotel  people  had  not  yet  had  time  to  put  their  names  up. 
Madame  was  fatigued ;  and  Hester  had  come  out  alone  to 
buy  some  gloves — hence  the  meeting.  But  when  I  inquired 
of  her  what  had  brought  her  to  Munich,  she  looked  up,  some- 
what reproachfully,  and  asked,  in  that  low  and  tender  voice 
of  hers,  if  I  had  not  expected  her.  We  forgot  about  the 
gloves.  We  wandered  away  from  the  city,  and  past  the  gates 
and  the  suburban  houses.  There  was  a  clear  blue  sky  over- 
head, and  occasionally  a  flock  of  pigeons  whirring  past  and 
gleaming  in  the  white  sunlight.  She  and  I  had  a  whole  life- 
time to  settle,  and  how  fair  was  that  future  that  lay  before  us  ! 
The  light  of  it  shone  in  her  wistful  eyes,  even  while  the 
English  modulations  of  her  voice,  grown  almost  unfamiliar  to 
my  ear,  recalled  England  and  all  the  by-gone  years. 

Weavle  had  at  last  been  cast  behind,  like  Satan.  The  old 
days  in  that  Holborn  workshop  were  like  a  nightmare  that  had 
fled  before  the  morning  sunlight.  But  do  not  think  that  this 
deliverance  was  due  to  the  fact  that  I  had  now  more  money 
than  I  had  then.  God  forbid  that  I  should  have  written  this 
history  of  my  life  if  I  had  so  poor  a  triumph  to  tell  in  the  end. 
It  needed  none  of  Heatherleigh's  teaching  to  show  me  that 
money  was  not  the  thing  that  made  life  most  beautiful  and 
valuable  ;  and,  as  Hester  and  I  spoke  of  the  years  that  were 
to  come,  and  as  I  told  her  how  I  had  escaped  from  the  stifling 
atmosphere  that  hung  over  the  bitter  struggle  for  existence  in 
England,  into  the  sweeter  and  serener  air  that  now  surround- 
ed us,  it  was  no  hope  of  riches  that  lit  up  the  prospect  for  us, 
and  no  desire  of  wealth  that  promised  to  be  the  stimulant  of 
our  future.  Yet  we  were  bold  enough  to  think  that  some 
measure  of  good  purpose  might  be  done  by  us,  whether  we 
Hved  in  England  or  elsewhere,  if  we  could  only  shed  around 
us  the  influences  of  two  lives  wisely  and  honestly  lived,  and 
made  honorable  and  noble  by  the  kindly  servitude  of  love. 


304  K1LMEXY. 

It  was  not  very  long  after  this  time  that  I  told  my  darling  a 
story.  She  and  I  were  at  Rolandseck,  over  the  Rhine,  and 
we  were  all  by  ourselves  there.  It  was  late  in  the  autumn, 
and  all  the  herd  of  tourists  had  gone  home  ;  I  think  we  were 
the  only  visitors  at  the  Hotel  Billau,  which  overlooks  the  river. 
The  nights  were  drawing  in  now  ;  and  when  dinner  was  over, 
and  we  went  out  upon  the  balcony,  it  was  quite  dark,  and  we 
could  scarcely  see  the  great  stream,  though  we  heard  its  rip- 
pling down  in  front  of  us.  But  the  moon  was  slowly  rising 
behind  the  heights  of  Rolandseck  ;  and  so  I  wrapped  my  little 
friend  in  comfortable  shawls  and  furs,  and  together  we  waited 
for  the  cold  night. 

How  still  it  was,  and  how  beautiful  too,  when  the  calm,  won- 
derful radiance  came  over  the  hills  behind,  and  showed  us 
the  magical  picture  that  lay  around  us.  Far  in  the  distance, 
touched  here  and  there  with  the  moonlight,  the  great  Drachen- 
fels  rose  from  over  the  river  up  into  the  dark,  starlit  sky. 
Down  at  our  feet  the  broad,  still  stream  ran  softly  past,  until 
it  smote  and  quivered  in  silver  along  the  shores  of  the  island 
of  Nonnenwerth,  that  lay  out  there,  half  hid  in  a  pale,  mystical 
haze.  And  high  over  the  island  rose  behind  us,  sharp  and 
black,  the  wooded  peak  on  which  the  Knight  Roland  built 
his  tower,  that  so  he  might  look  down  on  his  love,  and  watch 
her  as  she  came  out  with  her  sister-nuns  to  walk  around  the 
cloisters  of  Nonnenwerth — until,  at  last,  he  saw  her  funeral 
procession,  and  never  spoke  more.  Keener  and  clearer  grew 
the  light,  until  it  shown  on  the  gray  buildings  of  the  island, 
and  gleamed  along  the  river  that  encircled  it.  Here  and 
there,  too,  were  specks  of  orange  light  visible  on  the  other 
bank,  where  some  cluster  of  cottages  lay  under  the  shadow 
of  the  mighty  Drachenfels  ;  and  we  could  hear,  far  down  the 
stream,  the  sound  of  some  boatmen  singing,  as  they  moored 
their  barges  close  in  by  the  shore. 

There  was  no  need  of  much  talking  on  such  a  night :  it 
was  enough  to  sit,  one  great  shawl  over  both  of  us,  and  look 
on  the  wonderful  river  and  the  hills  and  the  stars.  But  my 
darling,  nestling  close  and  warm  under  her  manifold  plaids, 
bade  me  tell  her  yet  one  more  tale  ;  and,  as  I  had  exhausted 
all  I  knew  of  Rhenish  legendary  lore,  I  told  her  a  story  of 
England.  And  it  was  this : 

"  There  was  once  a  boy  who  used  to  wander  all  over  the  coun- 
try by  night ;  and  he  fell  in  love  with  a  star.  And  he  said — 

"  *  Oh,  you  beautiful  small  creature !  come  down  and  be  my 
companion,  and  we  will  go  through  the  world  together,  all  these 
coming  years' 


KILMEXY  COMES  HOME.  305 

••  />'///,  as  he  walked  on,  he  saw  a  Will-o'-the-wisp  shining  in 
tlic  dark,  and  he  said — 

"  '  Oh,  you  wonderful  creature !  with  your  bright  eyes  and 
your  streaming  hair,  I  have  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  as 
you.  Come,  and  we  will  go  through  the  world  together,  all  these 
coming  years? 

"  So  they  travelled  on  together.  But  in  a  little  while  the  Will- 
o'-the-wisp  began  to  flicker  up  and  down,  and  finally  flew  over  a 
hedge  and  then  disappeared ;  and  he  was  left  in  the  dark. 

"  Then  he  looked  up,  and  lo  !  above  him  there  still  shone  the 
star,  and  it  was  as  gracious  and  as  beautiful  as  ever.  And  he 
said — 

"  '  Oh,  you  dear  small  creature  /  will  you  forgive  me  for  what 
I  have  done ;  and  will  you  always  look  down  on  me  as  you  do 
now,  and  I  shall  look  up  to  you  and  love  you  ? ' ' 

That  was  the  question  I  asked  of  my  darling  as  we  sat  to- 
gether there,  under  the  shadows  of  Rolandseck.  It  is  some 
time  since  then ;  and  I  who  write  these  words  am  still  look- 
ing up  to  this  beautiful  creature,  who  has  never  ceased  lo 
shed  her  soft  radiance  around  me.  Perhaps  she  is  a  little 
nearer  earth  now — but  that  has  only  enlarged  her  brightness ; 
and,  thinking  over  all  these  things,  and  of  her  great  affection, 
forbearance,  and  sweetness,  how  can  I  help  regarding  her, 
my  most  tender  and  faithful  friend,  with  admiration  and  won- 
der and  love  ? 


THE   END. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

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